


A Seed of Love

by SosoHolmesWatson



Series: The Pains of Growing [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caring John Watson, Domestic Bliss, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Heavy Angst, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Hand Jobs, Honeymoon, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, John is a Sex God, Kidnapping, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mollstrade, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Parentlock, Surrogacy, Tags Contain Spoilers, Top John Watson, Wedding Planning, Weddings, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SosoHolmesWatson/pseuds/SosoHolmesWatson
Summary: Two months after moving back in together, the Baker Street Boys have finally faced their past and confessed their love. Still, finding their way into their new relationship poses a lot of challenges neither of them could have foreseen. Can their seed of love take root?





	1. John's Chapter: A Brand-New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/gifts).



> This work is the sequel to [A Change of Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092448). I recommend reading it before starting this fic but you still should be able to understand most of it :)
> 
> Every chapter features a song which captures its essence. I'll provide YouTube links for each song if you want to listen to them :)  
> I gift this fic to the wonderful and absolutely brilliant [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw)! Without her, I wouldn't be writing in the first place. I love you, girl! <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: [anchored-in-high-tide](https://anchored-in-high-tide.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John didn’t want to fall asleep. Not yet. Not while the sensation of having Sherlock pressed against him, skin to skin, was still fresh and vivid, with crisp, shining edges that made his heart ache in overwhelming happiness. If he was lucky, soon enough their touches would lose this feeling of novelty and instead gain a reassuring, homely quality. But for now, John wanted to soak up as much of this pleasant giddiness that came with Sherlock’s naked form against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> I'm finally back with the first chapter of the sequel to A Change of Heart! Hope you will enjoy this one, too :) Concrit is always welcomed, as are kudos and comments ;)
> 
> This chapter's song:  
> [Ed Sheeran, Hearts Don't Break Around Here](https://youtu.be/MDZLl5nn3mQ) (wonderful live version!)

# John’s Chapter: A Brand-New Beginning

 _Every night I'll kiss you you'll say in my ear:_  
_Oh we're in love, aren't we?_  
_Hands in your hair, fingers and thumbs baby,_  
_I feel safe when you're holding me near,_  
_Love the way that you conquer your fear._  
_You know hearts don't break around here._

 

Ed Sheeran, Hearts Don’t Break Around Here.

 

John didn’t want to close his eyes just yet. Sherlock was already fast asleep, half his body spread across John like a heavy blanket, silky curls tingling the crook of John’s neck. In the serenity of their bedroom, Sherlock’s deep, even breaths seemed to melt into a relaxing, melodic rhythm. His chest, swelling against John’s side in steady waves, had something so comforting about it, like a calm ocean washing against safe shores, gently rocking John to sleep.

But John didn’t want to fall asleep. Not yet. Not while the sensation of having Sherlock pressed against him, skin to skin, was still fresh and vivid, with crisp, shining edges that made his heart ache in overwhelming happiness. If he was lucky, soon enough their touches would lose this feeling of novelty and instead gain a reassuring, homely quality. But for now, John wanted to soak up as much of this pleasant giddiness that came with Sherlock’s naked form against his.

He still couldn’t believe it. After all these years of silent, shameful pining, of suppressed emotions, lies, and self-restraint, they had finally allowed themselves to fall. And all it had taken were two months of living together again—and one ginormous fight.

As painful as the confrontation had been, with Sherlock throwing all his sharp, crimson secrets at John—how he had suffered, how John constantly hurt him with his pursuit of women—John was incredibly thankful that Sherlock’s walls had cracked at last. Who knew if John himself would ever have worked up the courage to tell his friend and roommate how he really felt? Without Sherlock’s violent outburst, he might have never been able to confront himself and his family with his bisexuality. But all the baggage he and Sherlock both carried had been unpacked and was now safely stored in an attic where it hopefully wouldn’t stand in the way of their relationship, their future.

John absent-mindedly traced the scars on Sherlock’s back, a constant reminder of the pain he had endured for him, and buried his nose in his dark luxurious curls. His scent had lingered in the air of 221B as long as John could remember, had enriched the atmosphere and driven him perfectly insane. Now that he was able to inhale the enchanting perfume in all its overwhelming richness he couldn’t believe that he was granted such a pleasure. Sherlock was finally his.

 

***

 

_16 hours earlier._

 

Mrs. Hudson still stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a grin plastered onto her face, when John hastily let go of Sherlock who then hurried to turn off the smoke detector that had prompted their landlady to barge in on their early-morning intimacies. John could think of a thousand more comfortable scenarios to break the news to their friend than her walking in on them while they slow-danced in the kitchen, half-naked, with hair still ruffled from last night’s sex. They had been so immersed in their embrace that they had forgotten about the pancake on the stove which had by now shriveled down to a coal-black lump. So much for a romantic breakfast between lovers… But what was done was done and had to be dealt with now.

“Mrs. H, I was just about to come downstairs to fetch Rosie,” John said in a forcedly nonchalant tone while Sherlock got rid of the burned pancake and opened the windows to let the smoke out.

“I can see that,” she chuckled, not showing any signs of leaving. John was suddenly very aware that his pants and Sherlock’s t-shirt, that he had grabbed accidentally, covered way too little skin to allow for a friendly chat. In a desperate attempt to cover himself, he grabbed the blanket hanging over his armchair and flung it around his hips to hide his waning but still rather prominent erection.

“I understand you two have made up?” Mrs. Hudson added with an almost unbearable air of complacence. John was still unsure about how much their landlady had witnessed of yesterday’s drama—the fight, Sherlock storming out in the middle of the night, John leaving in the early morning, Sherlock collapsing upon his return to an empty flat, thinking John had abandoned him.

He opened his mouth for an un-committal answer when his eyes found Sherlock who met his gaze in some sort of sad disenchantment. The sight clenched John’s heart in a firm cold grasp of guilty conscience. He knew how Sherlock had suffered witnessing John’s denial for years and years, how he still was so painfully aware of John’s need to comply to social norms that he offered him complete control over their display of affection in public. Sherlock was willing to yield to John’s needs, to let him lead, to let John love him on his own terms—as long as he finally loved him.

John reached for Sherlock’s hand, pulling him close and melting a little at the sight of the elated expression his gesture evoked. With a coy arm finding its way around his waist, John captured Sherlock’s lips in a quick but meaningful kiss before facing Mrs. Hudson again.

“Yes, I believe we have,” he smiled, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together and all but squealed: “Oh, after all these years. I’m so happy for you!” Her voice regaining some of her usual motherly exasperation, she added: “I had almost given up on you, with all that talking about sociopaths and not being gay. But only an idiot could have missed how you were in love with each other.”

“We’re idiots then, I guess,” Sherlock grinned and nudged John’s ear with his nose.

“By the way, I’m still not gay, Mrs. Hudson. I’m bisexual,” John objected. Technically, he had never lied to anyone.

“Ah, whatever,” she waved his explanation aside, “as long as you boys are finally together.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other in open and unapologetic adoration. “Well, that we are,” Sherlock said and bend down a little to kiss John again, a heavenly confirmation. John’s eyes fell shut as Sherlock’s lips met his, endorphins running in his bloodstream like a stampede of tiny elephants. The world around him drowned out again, all his senses fixed on Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson audibly cleared her throat and made the men interrupt their kissing once more.

“I’ll better go down and fetch Rosie. Maybe you two could… put on some more clothes while I’m gone?”

She winked and left the flat, humming a happy and self-satisfied tune as she walked down the stairs. John rushed to the bedroom and hurriedly changed into one of his own t-shirts, an undertaking that took considerable efforts since Sherlock’s hands, eager to touch every bit of skin they could reach, obstructed his movements. As John put on his trousers and a jumper, Sherlock picked up the other t-shirt John had thrown onto the bed and sniffed the fabric.

“Hmm, now it smells like you,” he purred and pulled it over his head, blushing a little as John burst out in giggles. “Not good?”

“Oh honey, it’s all good. You’re just so incredibly… cute.”

“I am not cute.”

“Yes, you are.” John grinned and pulled Sherlock into another kiss. “The cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” Any further objections were successfully silenced until Mrs. Hudson returned.

The pancakes that hadn’t burned weren’t nearly enough to feed two adults but neither of them seemed to have any particular appetite anyway. While Rosie happily mashed a banana on her plate, John could barely keep his eyes—and hands—off of Sherlock. Some part of their bodies always maintained contact—feet tangling under the table, fingers resting on thighs, backs, and shoulders, lips finding a temple or a forehead. Some of these gestures barely differed from the platonic acts of affection they had more frequently shared over the last two months and yet John would never have imagined touching Sherlock to feel like this—exciting, addictive even, and just… right. As if all these brushes and nudges had been there, had been meant to be, and now finally, _finally_ , found their way onto warm, welcoming skin.

After breakfast, they retired to the sofa, Sherlock cuddling up to John in the most natural manner, and entertained Rosie with one of her plush toys. Her excited squeals mixed with Sherlock’s dark, chocolaty chuckle made John’s chest almost burst with unbearable happiness. This little family was everything he ever could’ve wished for.

The three of them shared a pretty messy snack—Rosie insisted on feeding John and Sherlock some of her whole grain cereal with clumsy little hands—and were just setting up a little playground for the toddler on the sitting room floor, consisting of some of those educational and sensory stimulating toys Sherlock had insisted on getting her, when John’s phone buzzed. It was still in the pocket of his jacket, haphazardly draped over the little side table by the door. Sherlock’s greatcoat piled next to it on the floor, evidence of the passion that had found its way into 221B last night.

Having hung up both jackets, John sat back down on the sofa and checked his messages. Up until now, he had almost forgotten about the world outside of their cozy flat and he wasn’t particularly keen on re-entering it. Maybe Sherlock’s getting rid of his phone wasn’t so dumb after all.

 

**Harry (04.01., 19:12):**

How did it go?

 

**Harry (04.01., 19:57):**

God, Johnny, please tell me that everything’s alright!

 

**Harry (04.01., 21:39):**

I’m taking you not answering as a good sign… Hope you guys have fun ;)

 

**Molly (07:10):**

Is Sherlock with you? Is everything alright?

 

**Molly:**

MISSED CALL (2)

 

**Greg (08:45):**

Did you talk to Sherlock?

 

**Greg (10:16):**

He loves you, mate. Don’t be an idiot.

 

John sent back some short, appeasing texts, hoping to buy some time before having to tell everyone about this wonderful new thing between them. The fewer people knew about it the more it remained a secret only he and Sherlock shared, a sacred sanctuary to hide away in, untainted with the world’s wrongs.

He was about to lock the phone when his eyes caught on the date. “Wait, today’s the 5th?”

“Yeah, why?” Sherlock asked absent-mindedly and rose from the carpet where Rosie was stacking colourful toy blocks with a delightfully concentrated face.

“Tomorrow’s your birthday!”

Sherlock slumped down next to John on the sofa again. “So?”

“We’ve got people coming over and there’s not a single eatable thing in the flat.” John groaned. “I need to go out and do some shopping.”

“Noooo,” Sherlock whined and buried his head in John’s lap. Drawing in a sharp breath, John quickly fought down the beast in his groin that raised its head curiously at the close proximity of Sherlock’s face. That had to wait.

“Don’t worry, love, you can stay home with Rosie. I’ve some very secret birthday errands to run.”

Sighing, Sherlock shifted onto his back and frowned up at him. “John, you know I don’t care about my birthday.”

“But I do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but their expression changed at once as John ran his fingers through the luscious curls framing that angelic face. “Just hurry, will you?” Sherlock pleaded, his voice low and needy.

John gave him a reassuring smile, his heart once more reveling in the softness that had taken hold of Sherlock, this special, tender, almost fragile expression. “Of course. I want to spend as much time as possible with you before I have to go back to work.”

“What?” Sherlock sat back up. John tried hard not to laugh out loud at the adorable indignation saturating his question.

“Today’s Saturday. On Monday, my paid leave is over.”

Sherlock let out another exasperated sigh. “You should most definitely quit that job of yours.”

“Just because you want me home for snogging?” John asked mockingly.

“I’ve already established my reasoning: It would be beneficial for all three of us if you had one less responsibility to take care of. Working cases and raising Rosie is already straining your resources enough and the Work could provide you a sufficient income just as well. Besides, you hate working at that boring clinic.”

“I know your reasons and I told you: I’m open to the thought but I need some more time to think about it, weigh up the pros and cons, you know.”

“Then let me add the obvious pro that you would indeed have more time for snogging me.”

“That is a convincing point, I admit,” John grinned but the way Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with mischief and lust made it ebb away rather quickly.

“I can be very persuasive, you know,” Sherlock teased in the deep, dangerous tone that made John’s hair stand on end, bringing their faces as close together as he could without them actually touching.

John didn’t budge. “Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed.”

He caught Sherlock’s plush lips in a hard kiss, hand finding its way into dark curls, tongue demanding entrance. All mocking aside, John thought, having hours and days between cases to just do _this_ would be absolutely fantastic. As always, Sherlock’s logic was hard to refute.

Sherlock climbed half on top of him, nothing but a hungry mouth and skillful fingers, deepening the kiss even further until both their heartbeats were racing in unison and their breath came in synchronized panting. John’s inner beast was rattling at its cage in ravenous hunger, last night’s feeding already forgotten. The bars wouldn’t stand its frenzy much longer.

With a groan, John separated their lips before things got too heated to stop, easing Sherlock off of him with gentle strokes and a meaningful glance at his little daughter, playing on the floor. Rosie was probably too young to remember any of this but, still, this was neither the place nor the time.

“If you’re going out, would you mind calling at a chemist to… get some stuff?” Sherlock asked, audibly catching his breath, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed with arousal.

John swallowed hard around the anticipation lodging in his throat at the thought. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” John echoed, running a hand through his hair to regain his composure. “I’ll better go then.”

They got up from the sofa, carefully avoiding any kind of contact lest they ignite this special fire smoldering between them again. “I’ll take care of Rosie,” Sherlock said, sounding almost convincingly casual.

“Thank you. I’ll be quick.”

John put on his jacket, checked for his wallet and keys, and made for the door but a firm hand around his arm held him back. As he turned around, Sherlock’s lips were on his once more, fiery and sweet. Separating again, Sherlock said solemnly: “I’ll be waiting for you.”

John more or less staggered down the stairs.

Shopping was even more of a nuisance than usual; firstly, because he had quite a few stops to make, especially for Sherlock’s birthday, secondly, because there was a gorgeous detective waiting at home, miraculously yearning for him. It took all of John’s remarkable self-control to not abandon his task and run back to Baker Street. But he had to finish this first—and do it right and diligently.

When he finally came home, two and a half strenuous hours later, hands marked with red lines from carrying the heavy bags, Sherlock welcomed him at the door with a hushing gesture.

“I’ve just fed Rosie and put her down for her nap,” he said in a low voice, shying away as John reached out for him. “Don’t. She spat up all over me. I need a shower.”

John gave him a pitying smile and set down his bags on the kitchen table. “I thought she was finally out of that phase?”

“I thought so, too,” Sherlock said, his eyebrows raised in slight annoyance, and began stocking the fridge with eggs, cheese, and poultry. “We’ll have to watch that. According to my research, her esophageal muscles should be fully developed by now. Maybe we should switch formulas. Or I’ll just have to burp her more often, change the feeding position, or—”

John laid a hand on Sherlock’s, moved by his concern for Rosie and his efforts to help in spite of his uncomfortableness. These tokens of his affection he had displayed over the past two months they lived together again spoke volumes and yet John had failed to grasp their meaning for the longest time. What but love would incite Sherlock Holmes to help with chores? “You go shower, I’ll take care of this.”

Sherlock looked incredibly grateful. “Thank you.”

John heard him turn on the water while he put away the rest of his shopping. Sherlock’s absence provided him an excellent opportunity to hide the present he had gotten him. He eyed the little parcel, a sudden surge of nervousness whipping through him, before he stored it in one of the drawers of the side table. _Tomorrow_.

Tingling with excess energy, John felt himself being drawn to the bathroom. He grabbed the baby monitor and headed down the hall. The water was still running as he knocked and Sherlock invited him in.

The small room was overflowing with steam, fogging up the mirror and coating John’s lungs with the aroma of Sherlock’s expensive body wash. He quickly undressed and pulled the shower curtain back a little, biting his lip as he beheld the naked body in front of him. “Mind if I join you?”

The slightest hint of alarm and anxiety flickered over Sherlock’s face before excitement and this tender, trusting softness took over his features. His wet hands reached for John and pulled him into the tub. John rewarded his hospitability with an ardent kiss, running his hands up and down his back while the hot water engulfed them. The slightly heat-reddened skin beneath his fingers the only outlet for his nerves, he pressed himself against Sherlock, feeling both their arousal rise instantly.

Nothing stopped them this time as hands found round cheeks and hard cocks. Water and soap providing a wonderfully slick sensation, John guided Sherlock’s movements, once again impressed by how fast he learned and eased into this new intimacy. He really was a natural. Moans growing louder and pumps speeding up, they both stumbled closer to the edge. Sherlock’s free hand clawed for John’s back, his whole body spasming and clenching in panic before John could coax him to let go and cum with him.

He stroked Sherlock through his orgasm, taking his time afterward to hold and gently soothe him. The intensity of the emotional impact this experience had on Sherlock didn’t seem to decrease with time. He was again barely responsive, tears glistening in his eyes, his heartbeat fluttering like an agitated squab chick. John murmured ‘ _I love you’_ s and ‘ _You did so well’_ s against Sherlock’s trembling body until he calmed down eventually, lips and eyes seeking John in desperate relief—as if Sherlock had been lost in darkness, trusting John to strike a match in front of him, the light guiding him home.

“Can I tell you something?” John asked as they lay in bed that night, legs entangled, looking down at Sherlock while he ran his fingers through his ridiculously soft curls. Since neither of them was in the mood for watching telly, they had gotten ready for bed as soon as Rosie was asleep, both putting on their pyjama bottoms more out of habit than a conscious decision. After all, this was only their second night together. New routines would soon take over.

“Anything, John, everything,” Sherlock replied earnestly.

“Promise you won’t take it the wrong way?”

“Promise.”

“I know it sounds a little conceited but that’s not what I mean.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a playfully annoyed grin. “Just tell me already.”

“Right.” John wet his lips and forced himself to lock eyes with Sherlock again. “I’m incredibly proud of you.”

Sherlock cocked his head, his inquisitive gaze wandering over John’s face in search of something to deduce. “Why’s that?”

“I know that all of this—,” John began, moving impossibly closer, “this vulnerability, this intimacy—can’t be easy for you, letting down your guard like this. After all that’s happened between us and the things I’ve done, your past with Alex and everything, you are still willing to let go of your fears, to open up to me, to let me try and love you. And I think that’s remarkably… brave.”

For a beat, silence coloured the air between them. “Thank you.” Sherlock’s throaty voice sent a shiver through John’s body. He bent down and placed a tender kiss on his lips, feeling them turn up into a slight smile under his touch.

“And let me return the compliment, if I may,” Sherlock said softly, only reluctantly opening his eyes again as John ended the kiss. “I know how much strength and courage facing all of this must have cost you.”

“Ridiculously small price to pay to finally be with you,” John said, continuing to play with Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock nodded understandingly. “I feel the same way. There’s nothing I wouldn’t risk, for you, for us.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Warmth flooded John’s chest. He would never tire of hearing—or saying—it. He loved Sherlock. And Sherlock loved him. There was nothing better than this simple yet world-altering fact. Trailing his finger over a razor-sharp cheekbone, he said: “I love you more.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Sherlock retorted, capturing his fingers and placing a kiss to his palm.

John’s voice darkened as he fixated Sherlock through his lashes: “Let me prove it then.”

Covering Sherlock’s neck and bare torso with soft kisses, he made his way downwards over hills and plains of marble skin. As his mouth brushed over a pink nipple, Sherlock gasped loudly, his head drawing back on the pillow. John smirked through busy lips and continued his work, set on showing Sherlock just how much he meant to him.

By the time John had arrived at the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, the fabric was already stained with precum, a needily twitching erection clearly outlined. John assisted Sherlock in removing them, running his hands teasingly over his inner thighs and watching the shivers and spasms he caused with relish.

“John, please,” Sherlock’s voice came hoarse and pleading.

“What do you want, love?”

“Touch me. John, please, touch me.”

John let his tongue slip out and gathered his courage. He hadn’t done this before, not even once. Not that the thought had never crossed his mind, especially since he had met Sherlock. But even thinking about it had been a taboo—too deeply-rooted in his mind were the accusations of his father, the fear to disappoint his late mother, the shame, the guilt. But now that Sherlock lay outstretched in front of him, a quivering mess of pale perfection, all his fantasies came rushing back. The hunger within him didn’t have to be kept at bay any longer.

John positioned himself between his legs and closed his lips around Sherlock’s pulsating cock, applying the slightest bit of suction. The world dwindled to the animalistic sounds escaping Sherlock’s chest as he began to move. It was new. It was different. It was fulfillment.

And Sherlock came undone in his mouth and under his fingers.

Now they lay here, in their bed, snuggled up as tightly as humanly possible. And John didn’t want to fall asleep, even though his eyelids were made of lead and his thoughts crawling sluggishly through the deep mud of his tired brain, barely moving forward.

 _Tomorrow’s going to be an important day_ , the rational part of his mind whispered in the darkness surrounding him, _you should rest. There is time enough now; tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. You won’t miss anything if you just fall asleep now._

But how could the rational part of him possibly understand how he longed for every second of this quiet night—Sherlock’s breathing the only sound soaring in the still air, relaxed and steady, nightmares seemingly no longer tormenting him? How he longed to indulge in every single second that Sherlock allowed him so close, allowed him to hold him like this, their bodies and hearts bared alike? How could he not want to stay awake and cherish this wonder he was granted?

But slipping off into slumber was inevitable, John knew. His body got heavier by the second, weary and weighed down by the day’s demands, sinking down deeper into the mattress that promised sweet dreams and refreshment. John felt his mind drift off in spite of all his efforts to fight the impending unconsciousness.

No, John didn’t want to fall asleep—for what dreams could possibly live up to this reality?


	2. Sherlock's Chapter: Candles on a Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's birthday and all he wishes for is some time alone with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is:  
> [Peter Gabriel, The Book of Love](https://youtu.be/SZQIfEN_p2A)
> 
> Yes, another song featured in a TV series (that's half my playlist). I love this song/this version so much. And it gives you a clue to what's coming ;)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Candles On A Cake

 _The book of love has music in it._ _  
In fact that's where music comes from._

 

Peter Gabriel, The Book of Love.

 

Sherlock woke slowly, gradually, to a heavenly weight surrounding him. Surely, he was still dreaming, his subconscious mind creating wonderful sensations of warm arms around him and breath ghosting over his skin. Yes, what a fantastic dream this was, too good to give up easily.

He pressed his eyes closed, not wanting to let the disenchanting truth seep in; There was no one by his side to hold him like this. The bed beside him was empty and the slowly heaving breast on which his head rested was nothing more than his own pillow, saturated by the fantasies of a deprived brain and body. Sherlock was once more impressed by his own mental capabilities. This felt incredibly real. And pretending that it was a few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?

But at this moment, the comforting weight on his shoulder began to shift, to vanish, to slip away. Sherlock winced, almost in pain at the loss of contact. But, no, the hand simply weaved into his hair and a low voice rumbled: “Good Morning.”

Sherlock’s heart gave an excited jump, tearing him out of his dazed thoughts. He blinked against the pale light falling through the window. In its glow, the man beside him looked so otherworldly, an ethereal being, the sun getting caught in his hair like a halo. _John, my John._ Even his brilliant brain couldn’t possibly come up with something this beautiful.

“Good Morning,” Sherlock returned, voice soft and hoarse from sleep, and nuzzled John’s neck, miraculously solid and undeniably existent beneath his touch. This was real.

John placed an innocent kiss on his forehead, his other hand coming up to gently rub Sherlock’s arm sprawled over his chest. “And Happy Birthday, my sweetest. How did you sleep?”

“Great, you?”

“Me too. But the best part is waking up with you like this.”

Sherlock stared up at him, admiring the way the light drew patterns on John’s face. No one in the history of the world had ever looked more serene or happy. Except for himself maybe.

He still couldn’t believe his luck. Some part of him was only waiting for this new wonderful thing he had waited for all his life to be ripped from his fingers again. All good things ended eventually, didn’t they? You just had to make it count while you still could.

And Sherlock would make it count. He would soak all of John up, would consume him completely, let every fibre of his body be graced with him until neither time nor trauma could ever erase the traces this wonderful man left all over him. And he would give and give and give as long as John would let him, whatever he asked of him and a million things more. If good things weren’t meant to last, if their time was inevitably running out, Sherlock would spend every second cherishing John, aware of these moments’ preciousness. Didn't transience attach a special value to things?

Lost in thought, Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s bare chest, a lowly buzzing need rising in his own. _Cherish every second. Worship him while you can_. He needed him, now.

His hand being tickled by blond hair on smooth skin, Sherlock began kissing John’s neck, climbing half on top of him to align as much of their bodies as possible. John hummed approvingly, the sound vibrating in his throat and sending a shiver over Sherlock’s scalp. Smaller, sturdier hands began to roam Sherlock’s body in leisurely strokes while Sherlock covered John in kisses.

What John had done yesterday, how he had pleasured him with a wicked tongue and skilled lips—it had been loving but an act of utter dominance. John hadn’t let his reign slip for a second, had systematically dismantled Sherlock with suction and massaging fingers until Sherlock whimpered and quivered beneath him, begging for a coup de grâce.

Sherlock had always craved this dynamic, this side of John—strong and determined, not a loyal foot soldier but a man in command. Every glimpse of it over the past years had kicked his imagination into high gear. This was one of the rare cases in which reality was even better.

So, Sherlock wouldn’t try to take control; He would merely initiate, make an offer. He would present himself, subject himself to John’s wishes and urges: a wilful subordination.

His mouth mirroring John’s motion from yesterday, roaming over his lower abdomen, he pulled at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, fingers brushing over a half-hard cock. John gasped and said in a delightfully futile attempt to hide his arousal: “Hey, it’s your birthday. _I’m_ supposed to pamper _you_.”

“You can return the favour anytime you like,” Sherlock purred and began mouthing the outline of John’s cock through his pants. The dark blue fabric formed an intriguing contrast against John’s lightly tanned skin. Everything about him was golden and precious, a glowing treasure hidden away, ready to be uncovered.

Sherlock helped John wiggle out of his pants, silently asking for permission before every move and meeting eyes darkened with that lustful authority. His cock springing free, John bit his lip and gave Sherlock a permitting nod that made his breath hitch in his throat with nerves and desire. Oh, Sherlock would feast on him.

Just as he was about to close his lips around John’s cock, Rosie’s wailing, distorted by the baby monitor, pierced the excited silence. They exchanged a look, disappointment prominent on both faces, before John cleared his throat, pulled his pants back on and left the room with a quick peck to Sherlock’s pouting lips.

Sherlock threw on a t-shirt and his midnight-blue dressing gown and followed him. John had already brought Rosie down from her room and heated a bottle for her. While the little girl had breakfast, they both tried to avoid even the most innocent of touches. But it was no use; like planets caught in an orbit, they were always drawn back to each other. How could you fight such gravity?

“I’ll have a quick wash if you don’t mind,” John said finally, ungluing his hand from Sherlock’s thigh once more.

While John showered, Sherlock picked up his violin and began playing a tune. Since John had first kissed him, his mind was overflowing with music. He could’ve spent hours upon hours composing symphonies of love and longing, of crushing desire and final deliverance. His violin sweetly resounding within the walls of their flat, Sherlock swayed with the music, eyes only opening to jot down notes and clefs every few beats, while Rosie listened in fascination.

This particular air, hopeful and sweet with undertones of tragic loss and missed opportunities, had lingered in Sherlock’s chest ever since he had met a certain suicidal ex-army surgeon one fateful day at Bart’s. It had evolved, gained depth and nuances, but it had always remained that same intriguing theme echoing in the very core of Sherlock’s being: a magic melody he couldn’t help but follow.

For the first time now, he had been able to release it, to let it soar, freed from the chains of denial, and express it to the world: his love for John. Their music could fill acres and acres of staff paper.

“That’s lovely, Sherlock,” John’s voice sounded softly as Sherlock paused for a second, guiding Sherlock out of his own head, filled with odes to John, John, John.

Sherlock found him leaning at the kitchen opening, his hair still wet and unruly. His nonchalant sex-appeal almost choked the air out of Sherlock’s lungs.

“I just can’t seem to stop composing,” he said apologetically and let his violin sink. “Has always worked as a great emotional outlet for me, music, composing. And now, I just have so many emotions and nowhere to store them.”

“Mostly good ones though, I hope.”

“The best.”

John made his way over to him and caught Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. His eyes fell shut, every sinew of his body vibrating as if John played their anthem on them. Who needed instruments anyway?

Rosie began to whine in her high chair and they parted with a sigh.

“You go get ready, I’ll take care of her,” John said with a deflated smile and Sherlock scattered off to the bathroom.

Rosie seemed to have a peculiar talent for interruption as the rest of the morning proved. Before Sherlock knew they had taken Rosie out for what was supposed to be a quick stroll to tire her out without even a semblance of a chance for some alone time. While she finally took her nap, they had to get everything ready for their guests, moving the kitchen table to the sitting room to provide enough space for everyone.

Sherlock was just about to propose another try at some private birthday celebrations when his eyes found the clock. He groaned. Time had evidently developed a conscience of its own, stretching and shrinking however it pleased. This was getting ridiculous.

“The others gonna be here at about half an hour,” John said, following his gaze, his voice filled with defeat.

“Why do we have to have a party again?” Sherlock sighed, lazily perching himself on the sofa’s armrest, fidgeting with a paper. John shuffled over to him and stood between his legs, allowing them to be on eye level.

“Because it’s your birthday. Greg and Molly were so happy when you invited them. And Mrs. Hudson’s baked a cake. You got out of celebrating your birthdays for far too long. We’ve already had this discussion weeks ago. Don’t you remember?”

“The last few days I’ve had far graver things to worry about,” Sherlock chuntered defiantly. This whole social construct of celebrating one’s day of birth had always been one of the trifles Mycroft frowned upon—which, consequently, prompted his little brother to do the same. For a young genius, it was easier to rely upon such a doctrine than to admit that he didn’t have any friends who’d be willing to celebrate the anniversary of his birth anyway. Having people in his life who cared enough to insist on spending this day with him was actually kind of nice—if Sherlock hadn’t had a new boyfriend whose divine body was annoyingly inaccessible to him while other people were present. _Argh, people._

As if John had read his thoughts he said: “Before the flat is full with people and we have to go through the same ordeal again, explaining our relationship, having everyone congratulate us and stuff, maybe you would like to open my present first, while it’s just the two of us?”

“Alright,” Sherlock said and pecked John quickly on the lips. “But I have to tell you: If it’s not your cock with a pretty little bow on top, I will be horribly disappointed.”

John let out an incredulous laugh against Sherlock’s temple. “Then you’ll be disappointed, honey. But if you’ll behave and be nice to our guests, maybe you’ll get a second present when they’re gone.” He let his hand trail down Sherlock’s spine in a feather-light motion, a challenge and a promise.

“Oh, I’ll be the nicest person you’ve ever seen then,” Sherlock growled, leaning into the touch and trying to snatch John’s neck with his lips but the other deftly dodged his assault and instead began to run his hand back up again, over the nape of his neck and into his hair.

“So, some good shagging is all it takes to handle you. If I’d only known that sooner,” John grinned, this time allowing Sherlock to brush his lips hungrily over his jaw until he reached his mouth, a passionate kiss awaiting him there. John’s intoxicating taste on his tongue, Sherlock flung his arms around him, pulling him closer so he could grind their hips together.

“Stop that, birthday boy,” John murmured against his still greedily opened lips, “I don’t want another of our friends walking in on us.” He pressed another—agonizingly innocent—kiss to Sherlock’s lips and withdrew from his grasp.

Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. “Spoilsport.”

John only grinned and opened the top drawer of the little side table next to the door. He handed Sherlock a small package, wrapped in dark-blue paper that instantly evoked the image of strained fabric against golden skin and made Sherlock’s mouth water. How could John make him interact with other people today when all he really wanted for his birthday were hours upon hours alone with John and his delicious body?

“Happy Birthday, darling. And to make things more fun for you, I want you, just this once, to deduce everything you can about your gift.”

“Oh, it really is my birthday,” Sherlock dead-panned with an eye roll but weighed the package in his hand, intrigued. “Weighs 200 grams, I’d estimate—,” he said, turning the package over and eyed it from all sides, “—approximately 14,5 x 8 x 4 centimeters.” He raised the box to his ear and shook it slightly. From inside came a faint rattling sound, confirming his assumption.

“It’s… a phone?” Sherlock asked disbelievingly, although he already knew that he was right.

John nodded and wet his lips. “I thought since you… _lost_ yours, you could use a new one.”

“John, you didn’t have to—”

“Oh, come on, what’s a consulting detective without a way to reach him. Now, keep deducing.”

Sherlock smiled, a little embarrassed still by his complete overreaction that had cost him his old phone: When John had tried to reach him after their fight, he had lost his nerve and thrown it into the Thames. He had not even thought about replacing it yet but, of course, John was always the more practical of the two of them.

He tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. A small card—dark blue letters on heavy, off-white paper—lay on top of the phone. He picked it up and read:

 

**Happy Birthday, Sherlock**

**From John**

**xxx**

 

He let his finger run over the last line. _xxx_. Images came rushing back to him:

The two of them, years ago—deducing John from his phone—their first cab ride—explaining his thought processes, convinced to reap disdain—instead John’s praise: _Amazing!_ _Extraordinary!_ —a bond being forged.

His smile deepened. This gift was even more thoughtful than he had presumed, an homage to the past, giving the requested deduction a new, nostalgic significance. Sherlock recalled his words carefully.

“Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment,” he stated, turning the card in his fingers before taking a closer look at the gift itself. It was a brand-new smartphone, the shiny display brightly reflecting the warm light of the sitting room. He valued the model at about 599£, a considerable sum to spend, even for a partner’s birthday present. “Expense of the phone says— Oh.”

A sudden realization pulsing through his mind, Sherlock slowly raised his eyes from the gadget back to John whose face bore a unique expression of satisfaction and anxiety. Sherlock’s heartbeat drowned out all of their surroundings as John nodded, a nervously wavering smile on his lips, and got down on one knee. Taking Sherlock’s hand in his, he finished his sentence: “—husband, not boyfriend. Will you marry me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest, his thoughts tumbling, stumbling over each other in their rapid succession. _Yes, yes, in every universe, in every lifetime, yes_. But the words wouldn’t come.

Seconds passed and John still stared up at him, his eyes slowly losing their anticipation and instead filling with doubt. Sherlock stood there, frozen solid, only the high tide of his mind violently swirling and splashing against his skull. The spindrift wetted his eyes.

“You want to marry me?” he finally breathed in a rusted voice.

“Very much so.”

“Are— are you sure?”

John squeezed his hand ever so slightly. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I know you’re usually supposed to date for a few years or months at least but our timeline isn’t exactly conventional, now is it? The last thirty-six hours with you have shown me everything I want for the rest of my life. I don’t need any more proof. I know you never wanted to get married and you abhor the whole concept and if that’s still true that’s fine with me. It’s just that… I want the whole world to know how happy you make me. I want to call you my husband. I… just had to ask. So, what do you say?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly against the tears working their way up his throat, making it tedious to even press out this one, most important syllable: “Yes.”

“Yes?” John echoed, a wonderful mixture of relief and confusion glazing his features.

A gush of air escaped Sherlock’s lips, half-sob, half-laughter: “Yes, I want to marry you, you fool.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do,” Sherlock sniveled through a bright smile, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “I love you so much.”

His eyes glistening with emotion as well, John rose and caught him in a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, words muffled against his skin: “I love you too. So, so much.”

Sherlock clung to him as if John and the incandescent future he had just offered him would vanish into thin air as soon as he loosened his grip. An apparently inexhaustible stream of happy tears rolling down his cheeks, he covered every inch of John he could reach with wet kisses until John pulled back his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and met his lips. It was messy—laughter exchanged through open mouths, tongues exploring the environment changed by their life-altering promise, their salty tears seasoning the unique taste they created together—but it was the best kiss yet.

Their hearts, lighter than air, lifted them off the ground, leaving them floating about the sitting room. Sherlock never wanted to come down again. They could keep defying gravity for as long as they kept loving and laughing like this, keep soaring, out of the window and above Baker Street, higher and higher towards the bright-white January sun until they would burn up, melt into one being, united.

A rap at the door and several hesitant voices from the landing broke the spell. John and Sherlock turned to the sitting room door as it slowly opened and Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, carrying a cake peppered with candles, entered.

“You didn’t answer the door, Sherlock. Did you put the bell in the freezer again? You always—,” Mrs. Hudson complained before Molly interrupted her: “What’s going on with you two? Why are you crying?”

Sherlock bashfully wiped his face and shot John a glance who confidently said: “I just asked Sherlock to marry me.” Mrs. Hudson almost dropped the cake.

“What?” all three of their guests exclaimed, their eyes, widened in surprise, springing back and forth between John and Sherlock.

“Well, what did you say?” Greg asked impatiently.

“I said yes, of course,” Sherlock grinned, wiping his face again.

Shouting and cheering filled the flat at his words. “You’re engaged, oh my God, you’re engaged! Congratulations!”

Before Sherlock could put up a fight, all three had hugged him and John, their faces beaming with joy shared among friends. The cold winter air pressing against the windows jealously watched the group laughing and chatting, unable to penetrate this bubble of blissful, genuine warmth. If birthdays always were like this, Sherlock might get used to it.

He caught John’s eyes and grinned as the five of them settled around the table. Mrs. Hudson set down the cake and Greg began to light the candles while John opened a bottle of champagne. Sherlock was just about to bring Rosie down to join the festivities and have her first bite of cake when another knock called for his attention. When he opened the door, a tall figure stepped into the flat.

“Mycroft?”

“Happy Birthday, brother mine.”

Mycroft, his usual pompous three-piece-suit-clad self, nodded in greeting to the other guests and eyed Sherlock carefully though his gaze was less icy than usual.

“I didn’t think you would actually come,” said Sherlock.

“Well, John texted me that the— _party_ was still happening and—”

“And you would never miss a gathering where there’s cake,” Sherlock interjected teasingly as John came over with a glass of champagne and took his hand.

“—and, of course, I wouldn’t miss such an important day in your life. Going by your face, I think another round of congratulations is in order. I’m looking forward to the wedding,” Mycroft finished with a pointed glance at their intertwined fingers.

“How do you—?” John began with a puzzled look but then just shrugged his shoulders and handed Mycroft the glass. “You know what, don’t tell us. That could be our engagement present.” He returned to Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson but not without giving Sherlock a wink and pinching his butt, a bright, mischievous grin illuminating his features.

Mycroft raised his brows snidely and took a sip of champagne. He strolled into the kitchen and leaned his umbrella against the oven. As if on cue, Sherlock followed him begrudgingly. He was way too happy to argue with his brother but, given the way Mycroft had cared for him during his panic attack, he reckoned he owed him at least a minute of his attention.

“Sherlock, you know my opinion on these matters,” Mycroft said in a lower voice and Sherlock braced himself for a debasing speech about the faultiness of human emotion, already drawing in a deep breath for vindication. “But I’ve never seen you nearly as happy as you are today, with John. I’m glad he’s come to his senses and I trust that he means well, committing to you like that."

"Okay," Sherlock replied, a little dumbfounded.

"Still, you should consider the risk you’re taking. We both know Dr. Watson as a loyal but not the most emotionally considerate person. After everything that's happened... You might get hurt and I couldn’t bear to watch that.”

Sherlock raised his head in defiance. “That’s a risk I’m more than willing to take, Mycroft.”

“Have you thought this through?”

“This is not about _thinking_. But how could you understand that? Can’t you just be happy for me like a normal brother for once? This is all I’ve been wanting for the past eight years,” Sherlock hissed, careful not to raise his voice lest the others should hear him.

“I know.” Mycroft dropped his gaze. After a beat, he added: “I trust your judgement. And I am very happy for you.”

Sherlock raised his brows at the unusually soft tone, swallowing the rest of his anger. As problematic as their relationship was, as many grudges as had built between them over the decades—Mycroft had always looked out for him, protected him, been willing to sacrifice his own life to spare Sherlock the pain of losing John. They were brothers after all. Family.

“Would— would you be my best man?”

Mycroft met Sherlock’s eyes and straightened his posture, visibly suppressing a smile. “I’d be honoured.”

Silence spread between them like thick, sticky jelly. What were you supposed to do after such a question? Sherlock could only consult the memory of his own more than embarrassing experience when John had asked him to be his best man. That hadn’t been ideal either. Should they hug? Preposterous. They never hugged.

“Enough whispering over there, you two,” John called and they rejoined the group, both happily accepting the way out of this situation.

John had fetched Rosie who was now sitting in Greg’s lap, marvelling at the burning candles with bright, curious eyes. Sherlock stepped to the table, his fingers searching for John’s and squeezing lightly as they both watched the little girl giggle and stretch her hands out to the dancing lights. She would grow up with two fathers, with two loving parents, and aunts and uncles who adored her. She would grow up in a home, with candles on a cake and her drawings on the fridge, with Sunday dinners and summer nights filled with music. She would grow and witness a loving marriage. Sherlock would make sure of it.

"Alright, I'll blow out the candles as long as you don't sing that horrible birthday song," he said and John nodded with a defeated chuckle.

Mrs Hudson took another sip of champagne. “Don't forget to make a wish, dear!”

And although Sherlock deeply and truly believed in the power of logic and science and anything that rendered superstitions completely moronic, he couldn’t help but close his eyes and pray as he blew out the candles:

_Please, dear God, Goddess, Universe or who- or whatever is in charge of these wishes, please, please let us be together for the rest of our days. Let me love John Watson like this. Let John Watson love me in return. Let us be a family. Please, just once, don’t take this away from me._

His friends cheered once more as the candles went out. John let his hand glide over Sherlock’s lower back and then smiled at the circle. “Who wants cake?”

Sherlock went to the kitchen and fetched a knife and cake server—when had they even bought this—listening to the animated chatter in the sitting room with a sort of impatient enjoyment. This little party was more pleasant than he had hoped but, still, the bigger part of him longed for solitary hours with cock instead of cake. Or maybe both.

His face must have adumbrated at least a part of his thoughts, going by Mrs. Hudson’s sympathetic grin. “Don’t worry, Sherlock dear, we won’t stay long. You boys have the flat to yourselves again in no time. Now, I’m gladder than ever that I’ve got those noise-cancelling headphones,” she said with a giggle and let Molly top off her glass. Mycroft sent Sherlock another of his taunting looks. “Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight. I remember how things were when Frank and I got engaged. It was such a rush, we couldn’t stop—”

John’s cheeks turned adorably pink at her words. “No need to worry, Mrs. H.,” he quickly interrupted, “a one-year-old makes for a great chaperon. We hardly get a minute to ourselves, Rosie keeps us on our toes.”

He sent a strained smile her way and took the knife Sherlock handed him wordlessly. Their fingers brushed against each other and Sherlock desperately hoped that John would feel how he sensed his discomfort, how he wanted to ease it. And how he, too, longed for a minute alone with him.

“We could take Rosie, if you want to get rid of her,” Molly suggested in the rather awkward silence, setting down the champagne bottle and scrunching her face at her less than ideal choice of words. Her eyes flickered to Greg whose smile deepened even more. “I mean, if you want a night alone. I’ve barely spent time with her since you moved back in together. I’m beginning to feel like a horrible godmother. And you obviously need—”

John stopped cutting the cake. “Molly, you really don’t have—"

“But I want to,” she interjected, an unusual firmness in her voice. She stepped closer to Greg, who was still bouncing the little girl on his lap, and gently brushed her hand over the nape of his neck. He raised his gaze at her and Sherlock cringed a little at the thought that he most likely had the same smitten smile plastered on his face when he looked at John. The London murderers would probably rejoice if they knew that half of the team hunting them down was currently very busy being in love with each other.

Molly still awaited John’s approval and he only shrugged this time.

“It’s decided then,” Molly confirmed and sat down next to her boyfriend who looked almost ecstatic.

“We’ll have fun, won’t we, Rosie?” Greg cooed. “And your daddies will have a nice night off to celebrate their engagement.” His eyes twinkled in Sherlock’s direction but he was way too excited to respond with an eye roll or a remark. Another night alone with John. This was the second-best gift he had gotten today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can guess the next chapter will be short but hella smutty :D
> 
> And Molly and Greg taking care of Rosie gives me major butterflies:
> 
>  


	3. John's Chapter: Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to get it on but John is held back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all,
> 
> I know it's been a while but the wait is finally over and I've got a new chapter for you. It's hella smutty (my first penetrative sex scene, what!?), sprinkled with a little angst and loads of fluff. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Jaymes Young, Tied Down](https://youtu.be/K0Y-DefI5tk)

# John’s Chapter: Mine

_And when I have you_

_I’m gonna brand you_

_With my lips_

_And all of the world_

_Will know that you’re mine now._

 

Jaymes Young, Tied Down.

 

“This was nice, wasn’t it?” John said as he carried the dirty glasses to the sink. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s affirmation, their guests had stayed for several hours, engaging in pleasant conversation, eating cake and coaxing the story of their reconciliation out of John and Sherlock. It was already dark out when Molly and Greg finally packed Rosie’s stuff up and left together with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, the latter shaking with insuppressible giggles.

“Surprisingly, it was.” Sherlock covered what little was left of the cake with foil and put it in the fridge while John let the sink fill with hot water and dish soap. As he grabbed a sponge and the first dirty plate, he felt a pair of slender arms wrap around his waist.

“Do you have to do that now?” Sherlock asked, letting his head rest on John’s shoulder. His curls tickled John’s temple, their addictive scent easily drowning out the citrus aroma of the dish soap.

John chuckled. “Contrary to your assumption, the dishes aren’t going to do themselves.”

“But they can wait till tomorrow, can’t they?” Sherlock kept complaining and began to place soft, teasing kisses up his neck. John felt goosebumps spread over his skin as Sherlock nibbled at his earlobe, a sigh working its way out of his lungs instead of a reply. _That manipulative bastard._

Sherlock acknowledged John’s waning resistance by tightening his grip around John’s waist, bringing his body flush and lowly murmuring in his ear: “I’m sure you’ll have other… more pressing matters to attend to.”

Acutely aware of Sherlock’s growing erection against his back, John turned in his embrace and grabbed a tea towel to dry his hands. Having Sherlock’s half-hard cock now pressed against his lower belly wasn’t exactly an improvement when it came to his self-control. On the other hand, John reminded himself, there was no need for controlling himself any longer. He was allowed to want Sherlock like this now. The dishes might as well soak for a couple of hours.

Running his finger up Sherlock’s chest, John said: “I must admit—After your exemplary behaviour these past hours you do deserve a reward.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up in mischievous glee and John had to supress a chuckle at the sight of his obvious excitement. “What exactly did you have in mind, honey?” he asked innocently.

An adorable shade of pink crept up Sherlock’s cheeks while his skilled hands absent-mindedly floated up and down John’s body. “Well, if I remember correctly, you bought some things at the chemist yesterday…?”

“I did do that, didn’t I?” John asked in mock astonishment and grinned. Having Sherlock so close to him, begging for his attention in this endearing, half-seductive, half-bashful way—it was just too good to not tease him a little longer. He let his finger wander higher over Sherlock’s collar bone and his neck up to his face. Slowly, he raised up on his toes, letting his thumb brush over Sherlock’s ridiculously plush lower lip while wetting his own. How he had ever refrained from kissing the man in front of him for so long was a mystery to John. This mouth was made to be kissed, this body was made to be claimed and worshipped and loved.

Sherlock followed his motion, his eyes glued to John’s lips. Mere inches apart, he let his gaze suggestively trace down to their joined pelvises, his voice lowering in quite the same manner to a lascivious growl: “We… could put them to use. I did a bit of research on the topic and, as it seems, we—”

The words needed a second to reach John’s brain but when they did he abruptly dropped down to his heels again and stared up at Sherlock, dumbfounded. “Research? What? When? How?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the sudden change of mood, his eyes trailing off, looking for the step he had just missed. Hesitatingly, he said: “Yesterday, when you went out. The internet offers quite a few insightful sources on all kinds of matters and I thought this—”

John’s hand left Sherlock’s face in an interruptive gesture, his voice jumping up an octave: “You googled anal sex while babysitting Rosie?”

“Not good?”

John cocked his head, smiling lopsidedly at the way his reaction confused Sherlock. “Bit not good, honey.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, his hands dropping, but John captured them in his own and guided them right back to his body. “Care to show me what you found out?”

John caught a glimpse of the relieved and somewhat thankful smile illuminating Sherlock’s features before lips crashed to his own in a fervent kiss. The second they met, something cracked in John—an invisible dam that had been impounding water for the last couple of hours, now releasing it again with all of its might. Like an avalanche crashing over them and tearing down whatever stood in its way, John was no longer able to resist the gravitational pull of the man he loved. He needed to have him, right now. He needed to melt into Sherlock, to sink deeper and deeper, fully consume him. Oxygen wasn’t a necessity, Sherlock was. John would gladly let him saturate his bloodstream instead, grow dizzy with his presence in every cell, welcome the rapture of the deep.

Yet, after a few minutes—or half an hour—of flaming kisses and eagerly working hands, pulling shirts from trousers and bodies closer, closer, Sherlock broke their kiss and breathed against John’s jaw the only word he could forgive him for: “Bedroom.”

If there was an official world record for getting undressed the fastest, they probably beat it. They almost tripped over each other’s feet while rushing down the hall, trying to rid themselves of their clothes as if their life depended on it. Scattering shirts, trousers, socks, and pants all over the floor between kisses, they finally landed on their bed, both naked and panting with anticipation.

“Oh, wait,” John fought through the haze of Sherlock’s fingers roaming his body and almost toppled off the bed in his eagerness to get to the top drawer of his nightstand where he had stored his shopping. Sherlock let out a snorting laugh at the sight and John shot him a warning glance that made Sherlock giggle even more. He looked positively angelic, his lips drawn into a smile he just couldn’t supress, eyes sparkling, and flawless skin slightly reddened with arousal. His dark curls were already mussed and sticking out in every direction. John’s heart stuttered for a second, unable to fathom the love filling him at the sight of this beautiful man.

“I’m waiting,” Sherlock teased and broke John’s paralysis. He pulled out the lube and a pack of condoms and threw them at Sherlock, who was still giggling, before climbing on top of him, straddling his hips and securing his hands above his head in a swift motion. Sherlock’s snicker made way for a surprised gasp and his eyes visibly darkened as he stared up at John, the unexpected friction of their bodies sending mutual shivers down their spines.

“Will you shut up for once?” John growled, relishing in the way Sherlock’s breath caught and his cock excitedly twitched against his own.

“Make me,” Sherlock replied slyly but the trembling in his voice betrayed him.

John grasped both his wrists with one hand to stroke Sherlock’s side with his free one while attacking his insolent lips with his teeth until Sherlock whimpered. John grinned against his skin as he left bruises and bite marks all over Sherlock’s neck, his own breath ratcheting up with every moan escaping Sherlock’s lips. The man squirming beneath him, completely at his mercy, was intoxicating, and soon John felt his ferocious nature wake, rattling at the bars of its cage, screaming to tear Sherlock apart.

John did his best to ignore it but the beast’s howls grew louder with every shudder and spasm jolting through Sherlock’s body. The savage rhythm of his heartbeat took over, drums in the nightly jungle, and John raided the man beneath him, leaving behind nothing but charred ruins of pleasure. As if in trance, he kissed and bit, stroked and licked every inch of him he could reach with voracious diligence. Sherlock reciprocated as far as his restrained position allowed, arching against John’s body, half-heartedly trying to free himself while cheering him on with gasps and groans.

Everything else drowned out. There were only Sherlock and the beast—the pack—that was John, hunting him down, frenzied by his scent and movement. Sherlock didn’t stand a chance.

John sank his teeth into his skin once more, feeling the wildly thumping pulse beneath his tongue. At the contact, Sherlock rolled his hips up to John’s, searching for friction on his leaking cock. John’s own hard length was aching by now, demanding release at all costs. He couldn’t be tamed any longer, he would raven Sherlock, break him open and tear him to pieces, make him scream and cry, fuck the last bit of sass out of him—

John rolled off of Sherlock, panting heavily. His own thoughts scaring him with their violence, he locked his eyes on Sherlock’s, anxiously looking for a sign of distress. He mustn’t hurt him, never ever hurt him again. He was, however, only met by confusion and slight indignation overshadowing silvery-blue eyes.

“What?”

John let go of his wrists, instead taking Sherlock’s face into his hands, brushing his unruly hair back and placing gentle kisses on his flushed cheeks. His voice came out hoarse and breathy: “Would you like to… you know, top? Since it’s your first time and it’s probably… more fun.”

Sherlock seemed to bite back a laugh once more, his kiss-bruised lips curling into an amused grin. “That’s very considerate of you but I’m pretty sure we’ll both have more fun if I leave that to you.” His newly-freed fingers entangling in John’s hair, he added: “Besides, I love the idea of having a part of your body inside of me.”

John gulped against the lump in his throat, not quite sure if born of lust, nerves, or something entirely different. “Oh. Right, then.”

Sherlock pulled him down in another kiss and handed him the lube with a pointed look. As John still hesitated, Sherlock even went as far as popping the bottle open himself and guiding John’s hands down to his arse with an impatient click of his tongue.

“Are you sure about this?” John asked, still not convinced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course, I am sure. You don’t actually expect us to wait until we’re married, do you?”

John furrowed his brows and let his gaze drop to Sherlock’s naked body he was so willingly sacrificing. How could he possibly accept such a generous offer?

With a softer voice, Sherlock asked: “What are you so worried about?”

Biting his lip for a second, John looked back up at Sherlock. “I’ve never done this before.”

Sherlock gave him an understanding smile and began to explain: “The preparatory steps should not differ that much between sexes except that you—”

“No, Sherlock, I haven’t done this. Ever. With anybody.”

The same confused look he had put on in the kitchen took over Sherlock’s features. “Oh. I’d assumed with all the women you dated there would’ve been at least one who…”

John sighed exasperatedly. “Would you stop already with _all the women_?! I haven’t dated that many. And those relationships didn’t really last that long… So, even though I always wanted to try I just… never dared to ask, to be honest.”

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded slightly, staying silent for a second before fixating John again with curious eyes: “Anything else you didn’t request?”

John’s lips tugged up in a lopsided smile. “A couple of things actually, but you don’t—”

“I’ll do them all,” Sherlock interrupted him promptly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it determinedly. “Whatever you want, John. Anything, everything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you.”

The genuine conviction in his voice made John’s heart collapse in on itself. If Sherlock only knew what was going on in his head at the sight of him, what the wild animals inside of him wanted to do with him, _to him_. “You don’t mean that, love.”

Sherlock looked almost offended. “Yes, I do. There’s nothing I’d refuse you. You can have me, all of me, in every way imaginable, John. All I am is yours.”

“But— what if I hurt you?” John couldn’t stand his gaze, couldn’t see the light in Sherlock’s eyes dim by the memories of all the pain he had put him through.

“You wouldn’t.”

John’s head snapped back up, his voice half-incredulous, half-angry at Sherlock’s naivety: “Of course, I would. Look at what I’ve done to you in the past, I—”

“This is different,” Sherlock insisted softly, rubbing his thumb over John’s hand.

John sighed. “I don’t think it is. Sherlock, it’s not just my temper. There’s this—thing, this urge that I can hardly control. I’ve never experienced it like this with anyone else before. It’s… like there’s a whole different being living inside of me that’s trying to take over. And it’s hungry and savage and destructive. I could barely keep it in check the first night… or any time we’ve touched since. I don’t know what it’ll do if I… let go, you know. And if we do _this_ … I’m pretty sure that I won’t be able to stop.”

Sherlock cocked his head, his eyes warm and now almost as worried as John’s. “You’re still restraining yourself? Because you’re afraid to hurt me?”

John didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say? Of course, he was holding back. How could he expose Sherlock to such dangers? This was new territory for him and John needed to protect him, even—no, especially—from himself.

Sherlock tugged at his hand. “Everything we tried so far was absolutely breath-taking. I loved it, all of it. I don’t know why penetration should be any different.” The small, encouraging smile he gave John made his insides clench even more. Sherlock was so trusting, so unjustifiably trusting.

“You don’t understand,” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, the risk of injury is that much higher. It’s incredibly easy to hurt you if I don’t do it right. And even if I do it right, it might still not be pleasant for you.”

“I trust you. Unconditionally.”

“I know.” _That is the problem, don’t you see?_ “But what if I like it and you don’t and you ask me to stop because I’m hurting you but I just— can’t, won’t, and then you’ll never trust me again.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sherlock’s voice was matter-of-factly yet soft, but as John inhaled to form an objection he added with an adamantine stare from steely eyes: “No, listen to me: You wouldn’t. There’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind, John. I want to have sex with you like this, been wanting that for a very, _very_ long time and I won’t renounce it just because you’re scared of hurting me. If you don’t want to do this, just say so. But if your fear is your only objection you better get to work now or I’ll go and find myself someone who will.”

Sherlock’s lips turned to a pout and John felt a chuckle tug at his throat at his declaration. He raised his eyebrows at the man he loved and finally spread some lube on his fingers. Carefully, he let his slick hand glide over Sherlock’s slightly softened cock and his balls, over his perineum and farther down still, taking his time. He could see Sherlock’s jaw tense up at the touch, but, at the same time, equal parts relief and anticipation painted his features. John pulled him a little closer with his other arm, kissing his face while circling Sherlock’s hole. Here, at the very base of Sherlock’s body, he could feel every quiver, every tremble, every tiny signal of pleasure.

“You wouldn’t go and find someone else, would you?” John whispered and halted his movements for a second.

Sherlock looked up at him, his voice a little hoarser already: “Of course not.” His eyes widened as John slowly pushed one finger inside of him, more words leaving his lips in a single stuttering breath of air: “You’re the only one for me, John, always were, always will. I love you, only you, always you.”

“I love you too, Sherlock.” John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, for a second overwhelmed by the sensation of that tight ring of muscles around his finger. His rapidly re-hardening cock gave a twitch at the thought of taking its place and John exhaled forcedly, trying to keep control, concentrate. Hesitantly, he moved his finger, twisting and bending and carefully looking out for any signs of distress from Sherlock.

But Sherlock was practically pushing himself onto John’s finger, a long, fantastically filthy moan soaring from the deepest valley of his chest. The sound made John’s very bones ring with lust. God, he could spend hours, days, weeks with Sherlock in his arms like that, impaling himself eagerly on his finger. Just watching him made precum leak from John’s momentarily abandoned cock.

Sherlock’s eyes were clenched shut as John moved in him—at least until John’s finger brushed over Sherlock’s prostate and they flew open again, his whole body arching and spasming at the new sensation. All but screaming, Sherlock clawed at John’s back: “Oh God, oh God, John!”

John repeated his movement, sending Sherlock’s limbs lashing about in uncontrollable pleasure. Both their breathing gaining speed by the second, John kept fingering Sherlock, relishing in the feeling of it and thinking that he might very well be able to make Sherlock forget about the initial goal of this preparation if he just kept hitting his sweet spot like that. It could buy him a day or two to get used to it all, help him control the hungry wolves, and protect Sherlock.

As if Sherlock had read his thoughts on his features—which he probably had—he raised his head to press his lips to John’s and demanded: “More!”

“More?”

“Add another finger, now!” As John gave him a questioning look, he added, almost whining: “Please, please.”

How could he deny Sherlock anything when he lay before him like this, naked and shaking with arousal, a thin sheet of sweat bedewing his skin. John pulled out and added some more lube before pushing back in, with two fingers now. Sherlock received him eagerly.

Preparing Sherlock was like dangling a juicy steak in front of a pack of starved hounds. John tried his best to keep his movements careful and calculated, aiming only at pleasing Sherlock without getting carried away by the intoxicating mixture of his moans and motions. But it was no use. A painful urge pooled in his groin, threatening to overwhelm him the first instance he let his reign slide.

When Sherlock was finally panting and whining, feeble fingers fumbling with the package of a condom before giving up and letting John open it instead, the crawling, howling pack had already worn his defences down. He retrieved his fingers and put the condom on. For a few seconds, he could only stare at Sherlock, beautiful, naïve Sherlock, about to fall victim to his hunger, and quite willingly so.

John swallowed around the stupid lump lodged in his throat. “How do you…?”

“Like this,” Sherlock gasped out, rolling fully onto his back and pulling his knees up, “need to see you.”

John positioned himself in front of him, locking his gaze on Sherlock’s face for final reassurance. “You’ll tell me the second anything is uncomfortable for you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, chest heaving in heavy breathing.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

John added some more lube and cautiously rubbed the tip of his cock against Sherlock’s now invitingly opened hole, still not sure if either of them was able to survive this.

“Quit stalling, Watson,” Sherlock huffed impatiently and John finally and ever so slowly pushed inside.

Their eyes, still locked on each other, widened in synchronized overwhelming sensation. Inch after inch John let himself sink into Sherlock, the tightness absolutely world-shattering. Sherlock’s hot skin beneath his fingers seemed to vibrate with the effort to stay relaxed, to take John in, all of him. An anxious hand felt for John’s and held on to it in an almost painful grasp.

The first hesitant canting of his hips made Sherlock’s eyes roll back in their sockets, the deep rumbling of his moans saturating the air. Every new movement inside of Sherlock sent waves of unbearable pleasure through John’s veins, a cataclysm waiting to happen. Sherlock squirmed and shuddered under him, his calves encircling John’s waist, keeping him locked in. He couldn’t get away now, even if he had been able to stop.

“You—can—go—harder—John,“ Sherlock pressed out between groans, pushing his heels into John’s back. “Give—me—all—you—got—Captain.”

And if anything made the walls break, it was the rank. John secured Sherlock’s wrists above his head again with one hand while increasing the speed and depth of his thrusts significantly. Sherlock’s moans grew into cries and curses, but the rational part of John’s brain was already too far gone to listen or care. He only answered with a growl and buried his teeth once more in Sherlock’s sensitive skin.

To his astonishment, Sherlock didn’t crumble beneath his touch, didn’t collapse or dissolve. Instead, he pulled John in, surrendering and demanding at the same time. He didn’t only bear John, he bore up against him. They moved in perfect understanding.

And all worry lifted off John’s shoulders, rolled off them with every drop of sweat making its way down his spine. Pleasing Sherlock was pleasing himself. Pleasing himself was pleasing Sherlock. Letting his instincts take over wasn’t dangerous; It was paramount. His body—or the flaming beast steering it—knew exactly what to do to drive them both rapidly towards the edge.

He had got it all wrong. The pack wasn’t hunting Sherlock down—for he wasn’t prey. He was one of them, one of the wolves, born to run beside John in perfect lockstep. How had he ever thought that Sherlock needed his protection, that John would even be able to break his skin, to scar him? No, Sherlock wasn’t prey. He was just as ferocious and fierce, bones strengthened by fire and courage, and he let John take control; because he didn’t want to have it for once. Just as John let him take the lead wherever he saw fit.

They were two diamonds, grinding, polishing, complementing and challenging each other, made for this ultimate fusion in sparkling dust.

For the first time in his life, John simply let go. He slipped his free hand between them and clasped Sherlock’s still lube-slick cock with unquestionable authority. His own thrusts growing frantic, he pumped Sherlock’s cock hard and tenaciously. Sherlock’s moans spiralling into unknown heights and volumes, John’s hips and hands drove him over the edge, cum spurting all over his chest and stomach. Two more seconds and John followed suit. His orgasm hit him like a wrecking ball, as intense and positively devastating as nothing before.

Collapsing onto him, John released Sherlock’s hands which at once came around his body in a tight embrace. John felt himself slip out of Sherlock but didn’t dare to move since the arms and legs around him still held on in almost desperate determination.

“Thank you so much,” Sherlock mumbled into his skin. As John looked up he found silvery eyes bedewed with familiar tears. He still wasn’t quite used to Sherlock’s tendency to cry whenever he was overwhelmed by euphoria and relief upon his orgasm but he supressed his usual urge to voice his concerns. Sherlock’s expression was way too ecstatic to make him worry, anyway.

“That good of an orgasm?” John asked fondly instead, brushing his nose against Sherlock’s with playful gentleness.

“No,” Sherlock said before quickly correcting himself, “I mean, yes, absolutely. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” He brought one of his hands up to pointedly wipe his eyes. “But I actually meant to thank you for your trust.”

John propped himself up on his elbows. “My trust? _You’re_ the one who trusted _me_ : not to damage your butthole forever.”

“And you’ve done a marvellous job, I think,” Sherlock chuckled, the sound vibrating from his chest right into John’s skin, filling him with honey-sweet content. “I’ll reckon it’ll be fully functional for some more fun tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

“I won’t say no to that. But what did you mean with trust?”

Sherlock’s smile was softer than John had ever seen before. “You’ve let go. I could feel it. You’re always so incredibly controlled, even now that we’re together. But you let down your guard, you finally let your restraints go and embraced yourself fully, the way I do. And I’m incredibly thankful and honoured to have been part of this. And I can’t wait to marry you.”

At his words, heartfelt and brimming with love, John felt his own eyes water. Taking Sherlock’s face into his hands, he captured his lips in a long, tender kiss, trying to pour all of his own love and elation and sheer gratefulness into Sherlock’s mouth. As they parted again and looked at each other, both their cheeks still flushed from sex and now wetted with tears, silent, intimate laughter bloomed between them, acoustic manifestation of the joy overflowing.

“I love you so much, future husband” John said, in lieu of all the things he couldn’t put into words.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up infinitely more. “I love you too, future husband.”

John’s chest could barely take this level of bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hope this wasn't awkward or anything, being a first time for both characters and the writer here :D Please voice any criticism you can think of!


	4. Sherlock's Chapter: Run with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are out on their first case as a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back. I have literally no excuse for taking so long to post this other than that this chapter was a freaking monster. It haunted me, tormented me, and I'm still licking my wounds. It ended up being over 11k+ long (wtf?), so I hope that makes at least partly up for the long wait.  
> Hope you enjoy it! :)
> 
> The chapter's song is: Major Lazer & DJ Snake, Lean on

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Run With Me

_Blow a kiss, fire a gun!_

_We need someone to lean on._

 

Major Lazer & DJ Snake, Lean On.

 

“I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.”

Sherlock paced the room, feet tapping on the ugly, green linoleum in a relentless rhythm coinciding with his hammering thoughts. Every muscle in his body simmered with excess energy, threatening to tear him to pieces as soon as he stopped moving.

He felt Lestrade’s eyes burning on his skin in unbearable sympathy as he watched from his place at the plain metal table. The notepad and voice recorder on it seemed to hum expectantly, another unsettling sound joining the cacophony in his head.

“This isn’t your fault, Sherlock,” the DI said, his soothing voice piercing Sherlock’s ears like red-hot needles. “Stop beating yourself up. Neither of us saw that coming.”

Sherlock turned to him, his frustration reaching the boiling point. “Yes, but you’re all idiots!” he yelled, eyes as cold and piercing as he could muster. How could anyone believe that this wasn’t all his own doing, his personal failure?

“Sherlock—,” Lestrade began, hands raised in an appeasing gesture that only facilitated Sherlock’s anger. It boiled beneath the surface, so scorching hot his skin must’ve shown by now, must’ve bubbled and melted off.

“Stop. You don’t get it, do you? This—all of this—this whole utter… tragedy—happened because of me.”

Lestrade let out a sigh, hands running through his salt-and-pepper hair. With his foot he pushed the second chair in Sherlock’s direction, metal legs scratching over the floor. At the sight, Sherlock’s restless feet refused to carry him any longer and he collapsed onto the cold seat.

Lestrade’s lips twitched up in what may have been the resemblance of an encouraging smile before he reached for the voice recorder and turned it on.

“Just tell me what happened exactly, alright?”

 

***

_The previous morning_

 

“So, how are we going to do this?” John said, straightening the collar of his shirt while eyeing Sherlock in the bathroom mirror.

Greg had stopped by to drop off Rosie at Mrs. Hudson’s twenty minutes earlier and invited John and Sherlock to follow him to the Yard. Having already finished their breakfast, which admittedly consisted mostly of Sherlock eating the remainder of his birthday cake off of John’s body, they had both agreed to follow in a cab as fast as they could. Of course, _as fast as they could_ still included time for showering together.

They seemed to have tapped into an inexhaustible spring of desire with their first kiss. Ever since that salvific confession, Sherlock was barely able to contain the pent-up want permanently humming in every fibre. He could still not quite grasp what exactly was happening to his body—hormones alone could never account for this unique sensation. But, whatever it was, for once, he wasn’t complaining.

Even now, both finally fully dressed, the endorphins were almost too much to bear. Anticipation sizzled in his veins as if his blood had been carbonated. He could not help but bounce a little on his toes. _Morning sex. And_ _Work_. _A case_. _With John._   _His fiancé._ _And maybe more sex and kissing and touching later._ Could his life get any better?

He shot John a grin and ruffled his hair into shape. “The same way as always—first crime scene, then probably the morgue. See what Greg’s already got or rather what he missed. The usual.”

John smiled back but the lines around his mouth got a little tighter. “Yeah, no, that’s not what I meant.”

It took a second for Sherlock’s mind to catch up with the facts he derived from John’s expression. “Oh, right.”

He let his hands drop and bit his lower lip. Naturally, John wanted to talk about this, about them. It was their first time out on a case as a couple. A lot of people to see them. A lot of people to judge. Yes, naturally, John wanted to make a plan, map out a strategy. Be prepared for the whispers, braced for the stares. After all, John wasn’t as used to them as he was. “What would you be comfortable with? Do you want to… tell people?”

John turned around and quickly pulled him into a loose embrace, his hands rubbing soothingly over Sherlock’s lower back.

“I just asked you to marry me. Of course, I want to tell people,” he said softly and the weight dampening Sherlock’s enthusiasm lightened a little. “Besides, I bet they have some kind of wager going on at the Yard and if we march in there, holding hands, kissing... Doesn’t exactly take much to figure it out, even if it weren’t a room full of detectives.”

Sherlock raised his brows in playful contemplation. “I wouldn’t put it past their level of incompetence to miss those crucial clues. They usually do.”

John shot him one of his “Sherlock, behave!”-looks but couldn’t quite suppress his amusement either.

“Still,” John got serious again, “if the case is as high-profile as Greg said, we must expect a decent amount of press and I just want to know how we’ll handle that before I go and embarrass us both.”

“You couldn’t embarrass me if you tried, John, especially not with this.” Sherlock bent down and placed a tender kiss on reluctantly smiling lips. “And I have long given up paying heed to whatever those imbeciles print in their papers.”

John nodded slowly, obviously not fully convinced, so Sherlock added: “As I’ve said before: You can regulate our display of affection however you please, John. I won’t touch you in front of others if it bothers you in any way.”

“Let’s just try to keep out of the yellow press for at least a bit, alright?”

“Anything you want, John. Everything you want,” Sherlock replied and pecked John on his forehead before going to put on his coat.

 

The cab ride to the yard and the way John leaned into him, a warm hand on his thigh, had Sherlock’s great mood fully restored. By the time they arrived, he was almost giddy.

They entered the building and strode across the entrance hall, determined steps leading them right to the rooms cramped with desks and busy Yarders. A few heads rose as they passed, familiar faces turning towards them. Sherlock felt John’s hand intently slip into his, squeezing it quickly for reassurance. They exchanged a smile and proceeded towards the glass walls of Greg’s office. As the whispers began to crackle, jumping the gaps between work spaces and spreading expeditiously, Sherlock felt them roll off of him with astonishing ease. With John by his side, he was fireproof. Triumphantly, he grinned at the whole room as he closed the door to the office behind them.

“Taken your time, have you?” Greg greeted them. He got up from his desk, handing them both the case file without much ado, together with a cup of underwhelming coffee. He leaned against his desk, his eyes flicking back and forth between John and Sherlock while he gave them a rough summary of their findings. Sherlock listened only half-heartedly to Greg’s report as he thumbed through the folder: “Jason Beaumont, 18, was found dead this morning in his parents’ garden in Knightsbridge.”

The crime scene photographs showed a young man with a dark buzzcut in jeans and a t-shirt leaned against a wooden wall. His cheeks, now pale and unmoving, were plump with puppy fat, his body readying itself for one last growth spurt.

“Beaumont? This isn’t—?” John let the question hang in the air.

“Yes, it is,” Greg sighed. “We’re talking about Chief Superintendent Beaumont’s son here. That’s why this case is so high-profile and I need your help to solve it as quickly as possible. His mother discovered the body behind their shed. He had apparently suffered a heart attack some time last night between 10 pm and midnight.”

“A heart attack at 18?” John interrupted again.

Greg nodded with pursed lips. “Mrs. Beaumont said her son had a pre-existing condition.”

“Okay,” John said thoughtfully, “but if his condition was known, why are you consulting us? Doesn’t scream murder at me.”

“He was found in quite curious conditions. Last night’s sleet has destroyed most of the footprints and probably any useful DNA evidence, but there are details that suggest that a second person was in the garden when Jason died. And his shoes were missing.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a familiar look, both put on the scent of a rather promising puzzle. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin with an intrigued smile while John echoed: “His shoes were missing?”

“Yeah, he was barefoot. Seems pretty weird in the freezing cold out.”

“It sure does. And what details suggest that he wasn’t alone when he died?”

“Someone removed his jacket or jumper.” Sherlock nodded towards the crime scene photos and John took the folder. “His jeans are muddy, as is his hair. But his shirt hardly had any dirt on it. He must’ve worn something over it that got removed after.”

“Yep. And he had three cracked ribs but there were no other signs of any kind of assault, except for the bruises on his knees when he presumably fell over,” Greg added.

“Someone tried to reanimate him,” John said, looking up from the blank face of Jason Beaumont.

Sherlock gave him an appreciative smile. The wheels in his head had already begun turning, juddering with a frequency that let his entire nervous system vibrate. “So, you have already moved the body?”

“Didn’t really have a choice with the weather and all.”

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. “What else?”

“We’re still waiting on the toxicological report and the sweeping of the scene. I wanted to head back over now if you care to take a look? Molly said she’d call as soon as she finds anything interesting. Maybe someone knew about poor Jason’s condition and used it to mask his murder,” Greg mused and grabbed his jacket, missing the eye roll Sherlock couldn’t suppress.

John shot him a sharp glance and rose as well: “Could be.”

 

The garden swarmed with officers and forensics in the usual blue overalls when they arrived. What had once surely been a neatly trimmed lawn now resembled a mud pit, soaked by melting snow and rain, and tormented by a dozen pairs of plastic-wrapped shoes. The area around the shed, as well as a few square feet of ground leading to it, however, had been cleared and carefully roofed over by canvas covers. Make-shift pathways made of some sort of yellow plastic tiles encircled the areas to allow the Yarders to examine the location without tainting the evidence.

On one of these yellow brick roads, Greg, John, and Sherlock came balancing over to the crime scene. Their destination, shielded by a curtain of tarp, didn’t hold any grandeur or wonder though. It was just a bit of muddy ground behind a garden shed, a rather dismal place to die. Sherlock swallowed against an unfamiliar lump in his throat.

Sergeant Donovan was already waiting for them, the tension radiating off every black curl on her head.

“Nothing new, Sir,” she said to Greg, acknowledging John and Sherlock’s presence with a mere nod. “Forensics are almost done though. This is definitely only the place where his body was found. We believe Jason was dragged behind the shed to conceal the crime, from over there.” She gestured to the other carefully marked spot a few metres to their right. “The Beaumonts are waiting inside if you want to question them. They’re both pretty shaken up, so maybe put your bloodhound on a leash.”

Sherlock gave her a bright, toothy smile. “Thanks, Sally. I’d like to sniff and dig around a bit first, you know, like a good boy.”

The Sergeant took no notice of his comment. “I’ll be with the others if you need me, Sir.”

John and Greg watched silently as Sherlock retrieved his tools and examined the blurred grinding marks on the ground. The whirring conveyers in his head were already spitting out a dozen theories a second, discarding one after the other again before Sherlock had even time to think them through.

“Anything useful?” John squatted down next to him, his voice conspirational and fond.

Sherlock grinned. “A thing or two.”

“Care to let us join you in your funny little head, Sherlock?” Greg chimed in, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Jason was definitely dragged to the shed, based on the furrows here. He was already dead by then; the reanimation wasn’t successful. The other person present sat him up against the shed and removed his jacket.”

“We’ve figured out as much.”

“Well, if you figured out that he was dragged here by the second person present, then you should know for whom to look, shouldn’t you? It’s obvious.”

Greg visibly bit the inside of his cheek before he answered. “Who are we looking for, Sherlock?”

“Someone with a very close emotional connection to Jason. A family member, a lover, something in that order. Who else would a) try to reanimate him in the middle of a heated argument—”

“Any decent person,” Greg said under his breath.

Sherlock threw him a sharp glance. “—and b) who would go through the ordeal to drag his dead body all the way here and lean him against the shed. Have you seen the boy? He was, what, 6’, 6’1’’—and rather on the heavy side. Dragging him must’ve cost some effort. He was already dead. Why not just leave him in the dark garden and get away as fast as possible?”

“To get the body out of sight?” John suggested.

“Then why not aim for the hedge, roll him under the bushes? His mother found the body the very next morning. Look at the outline of the body—You must’ve been able to see his leg sticking out from the terrace there.”

“But what makes you—”

“The snow, the rain, don’t you see? The suspect couldn’t stand the idea of Jason lying out in the cold, being slowly snowed up. So, they struggled to get him over to the shed, the only place in the garden that could provide some shelter. Their efforts were in vain since the wind turned but still… Look. They sat him up here like he was still alive. That is textbook remorse, don’t you think?”

Greg nodded, eyebrows raised in admission, while John began jotting things down in his little notebook. “You said there was an argument?”

“Of course, there was.” Sherlock got out of the make-shift tent and eyed the surrounding garden. His explanations left his lips almost involuntarily as he made his way back to the front of the house, knowing very well that John and Greg would follow him. “His missing shoes. I don’t think they are actually missing. Yes, I bet if we look for them in the house we’ll find them. Jason just didn’t put them on. He followed the suspect out into the garden in a hurry, hence bare feet. It was so important to him that he didn’t bother putting on his shoes although it was freezing out. The other person obviously wanted to get away as fast as possible, so he had to react just as quickly. And since the suspect wasn’t exactly considerate enough of Jason’s lack in footwear to return to the house or at least the terrace in spite of the emotional connection we’ve already established, I’d say it had to be quite the heated argument.”

Sherlock’s rapid steps clacked on the yellow plastic, his thoughts already a mile ahead of his transport.

“Yes, alright, but aren’t you forgetting something?” Greg called after him, not trying to catch up any longer.

“What?”

“If the suspect, whoever it is, had such strong feelings for Jason… why didn’t they just call for help when he collapsed?”

Sherlock turned around, feeling the sparks fly from his eyes: “You’re finally asking the right questions.”

 

A survey of Jason’s bedroom didn’t yield anything new. In its spaciousness and the quality of the furniture, it matched the rest of the house. But the room couldn’t have been more obviously belonging to a teenage boy: an unmade single bed with dark covers, a chair in the corner laden with worn clothes, empty cans of soda and energy drinks stacked on every surface, a state-of-the art computer with gigantic screens taking over the desk by the window. The en-suite bathroom featured a large shower, a marble washbasin, and an overflowing laundry basket.

Anderson eyed them from a corner after having shooed his team away as soon as Sherlock entered the room. Albeit on much friendlier terms after his return, Sherlock blended his presence out and, instead, dug through Jason’s mess for clues. A few minutes later, he exited Jason’s bedroom again, leaving Anderson’s eager questions unanswered.

John followed silently like a shadow as they descended to the ground floor where Jason’s parents waited. Greg led them into a spacious sitting room and kept discretely in the background as they approached two sofas and additional armchairs grouped around a massive coffee table in front of a fireplace.

Mrs. Beaumont, a beautiful but gaunt woman in her mid-fifties, was a nervous wreck. Shaking with silent sobs, her fragile frame almost disappeared among the lightly-coloured designer cushions peppered over the sofa she was sitting on. She was still wearing her dressing gown, tightly wrapped around her in the resemblance of a comforting hug. Her husband, tall and poised, only a hint of emotional turmoil stirring up his handsome features, rose from her side and shook their hands.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank you for coming. Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the sofa opposite. “I had hoped to make your acquaintance some time sooner… and under less painful circumstances. DI Lestrade speaks very highly of you and, of course, your success rate is unparalleled. I’m aware that my predecessor didn’t exactly... make you feel welcome on the force—but let me assure you that your assistance is very much appreciated, especially now that we’re personally relying on your combined genius to disclose how our son…”

His voice drifted off as he re-joined his wife on the sofa and reached for her hand. A quiet whimper escaped her lips before she buried her face in a handkerchief. Mr. Beaumont quickly regained his composure and focused on John and Sherlock again. “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” John politely reclined for them both and opened his notebook. “We’re both terribly sorry for your loss and will do our best to assist in the investigation. If you’d be able to answer some questions…”

As the couple straightened up, he shot Sherlock a look, asking for his approval. Behind their sofa, Greg slowly paced up and down, his nervous energy itching on the back of Sherlock’s neck like a persistent bug crawling up the length of his spine. Having his superior sitting here obviously took its toll on him.

Sherlock gave John a nod and leaned back on the sofa. Given the stakes for Greg on this case, it was probably a wise decision to let John do most of the talking and, instead, diligently record every single detail of the interviewees’ reactions.

“First things first,” John began in the calm voice he used on clients, “where were you last night?”

“My wife and I had dinner with friends at _Rogelio’s_ ,” Mr. Beaumont said, clearly familiar with the procedure. “We arrived at 8 and stayed for the whole evening. The staff and our friends can vouch for that.”

“Where was Jason at that point?”

“In his room. We said our goodbyes and he said he wanted to order something in and prepare for school.”

“When did you leave the restaurant?” John asked further, directing the question at both of them. However, Mrs. Beaumont kept silently crying and let her husband speak for them both.

“11:30, maybe 11:45. We took a cab and were home at around midnight.”

“And then?”

“We went straight to bed.”

“Did you check on Jason?”

“No. He is… was 18 after all.”

John noted down the times, the names of the other couples, and the address of the restaurant. Again, he silently obtained Sherlock’s approval before he broached the next subject: “Mrs. Beaumont, I believe you found Jason. Could you describe the course of events for us?”

Mrs. Beaumont snivelled and finally removed the handkerchief from her face. “I… I came down the next morning—”

“At what time?”

“About 6:30, I think. I came down to the kitchen to make coffee and I noticed that it was unusually cold. I looked around; the French door to the garden wasn’t properly closed.”

John looked up and gave her a reassuring smile. “Do you remember whether it was closed when you came home?”

“I didn’t check. I might’ve been open all night.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went to close the door and looked out into the garden. And I— I—saw a… leg.” Voice collapsing under the weight of her tears again, she curled in on herself.

Her husband put his arm around her shaking shoulders and continued the story: “She called for me. You could definitely see a body sitting behind the shed, so we went outside together. We thought that maybe a homeless person had tried to find shelter from the snow in our garden or… but it was Jason.”

The room fell silent for a few seconds, the parent’s grief coating all of their lungs like oily, slate-grey haze.

Sherlock felt the lump rise in his throat again, coarse and painful. Pictures unfolded before his eyes: of a familiar, beloved little body lying on the ground, skin just as white as the snow surrounding it, blonde curls covering a blank face, tiny fingers limp, never holding on to his hand again.

Mr. Beaumont saved him from his thoughts as his empty but resolute voice cut through the silence: “I checked his pulse but he was already ice cold. Then we called the police. What else do you need to know?”

He and John exchanged a look, trauma recognizing trauma, soldier acknowledging soldier.

“Could you describe Jason’s social life?” John continued. “His friends? Did he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Anyone he was particularly close with?”

Mr. Beaumont once again took it on himself to formulate an answer rather than seeing his wife struggle through one: “Jason was… He didn’t have a lot of people in his life. Outside of school, he mostly spent his time on his computer. Kids these days, you know. He couldn’t go in for sports with his heart and apart from that… There were a few people he’d go out with sometimes but we never got to meet them.”

“Did he have any problems? At school? Any exes or anyone else who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

At the words, Mrs. Beaumont gave another pitiable sob, forming words nonetheless: “No one would’ve wanted to hurt him. He didn’t have—enemies. Jason was a good boy. He—”

“Actually,” Mr. Beaumont interrupted her in a confidential tone, “he got into trouble a couple of years ago. Nothing serious though, just some stupid shenanigans, peccadillos. Boys that age… you know how they are, always trying to impress the girls, not thinking things through. But we’ve got that all sorted out. Jason did his community service and the lesson stuck with him. He’s not made any trouble since.”

“I didn’t find anything about this on record, Sir,” Greg said, stepping closer to the sofa. The carefully supressed irritation in his voice made the air around them cool a few degrees.

“What exactly did Jason do?” John came to his aid.

The lines around Mr. Beaumont’s mouth deepened. “He had made a habit out of taking things that didn’t belong to him. Mobile phones, clothes, video games… But, as I said, he received his punishment and mended his ways. We just thought—since it was only a youthful folly and these things can ruin a young boy’s perspectives so easily, you know how it is—that we’d keep it out of the files.”

The confession stirred up something in Sherlock that had, until now, only lazily bobbled in his head. “Did Jason give any reason why he started stealing in the first place?” he chimed in, leaning forward in his seat. “He wasn’t exactly destitute, was he? Why steal something you could probably just ask your parents for?”

The Beaumonts gave him a perplexed look.

“And you are absolutely sure that Jason never fell back into old patterns?” he continued. “He never had any new possessions you couldn’t account for? Anything that would’ve exceeded the amount of his allowance?”

“Not to my recollection,” Mr. Beaumont answered through gritted teeth while his wife was convulsed with another wave of tears.

“Did he ever steal anything from you? Did things… go missing around here?” Sherlock kept digging.

Mr. Beaumont’s expression shifted from hurt to openly affronted. “Steal from us? Why would he steal from us? If he’d needed anything, he could’ve just asked.”

“Jason was a good boy,” his mother reiterated, red eyes fixing on Sherlock in an almost pleading manner.

John placed a warm hand on Sherlock’s and squeezed it once. “These are just routine questions we have to ask,” he said placatingly, “to get an idea of Jason’s life. We didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I understand,” Mr. Beaumont said, his voice a little colder than before.

“We’ll still need all information regarding his conviction and community service, Sir,” Greg insisted, shooting Sherlock a look.

Mr. Beaumont nodded with a courteous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course.”

 

“So, what do you think?” Greg asked as they reached the pavement outside of the goodly estate.

The dark clouds overhead promised new heaps of snow and only allowed for dirty grey light to filter through. Despite the intrigue of the new case, Sherlock found himself wishing for a lazy day in front of their fireplace with his feet stuffed under John’s thighs for warmth, both absorbed in a book or watching telly, Rosie cuddled up between them.

Would John and he lose track of her friends and interests as well when she’d grow up? Would she feel the need to hide her true self from them?

He slung his scarf around his neck. “His parents can definitely be ruled out. And I believe they have genuinely no idea about their son’s relationships. But I’m certain there is one, going by the half-empty pack of condoms in his nightstand. It must’ve been a secret affair then, someone his parents would never approve of. My bet is on a boyfriend. Did you notice their reaction when John took my hand? Visible signs of disgust on both faces, though suppressed. If Jason was in a gay relationship, he’d definitely would’ve kept it a secret.”

“Anything else? Any clues where to look for this mystery boy? Or why he fled the scene when Jason collapsed?”

“Not really. But I’m sure Jason’s phone or computer will yield something. And I’m convinced his death was accidental, not premeditated.”

“Well, I guess, given the circumstances, that’s good news.” Greg sighed, his lips pursed into a tense smile. “Okay, morgue next?”

“You go ahead,” Sherlock said, turning to the garden gate where the forensics team was just finishing up. “I’ve just got to run back quickly, I think I dropped my magnifier. We’ll follow in a cab.”

Greg gave him a puzzled look but didn’t protest as he trotted back into the Beaumont’s garden. Sherlock faintly heard him give orders to Donovan and the rest of his team to canvas the neighbourhood and then a car driving off just as he reached the shed. No one paid him any attention, Sherlock noticed contentedly, and kneeled down on the muddy ground next to the garden hedge.

When he emerged again five minutes later, John was still waiting where he had left him. Sherlock deliberately overlooked the inquisitive expression on his face and hailed a cab to Bart’s, busying himself with his phone. John got the hint and spent the ride quietly staring out the window. Still, Sherlock could sense his impatience, waxing like the pale winter moon, could read it in the frequency with which John clenched his fist or shifted his legs.

The tiniest prickling of guilt made its way down his throat but it didn’t grease it well enough to speak up. John would have to wait a little longer.

 

Visiting the morgue didn’t produce anything Sherlock hadn’t already firmly suspected. The only novelty consisted of Greg and Molly’s frankly troubling behaviour now that they were a couple. As happy as Sherlock was for them, as glad as he was that they had found each other, the two people in his life who had looked for love in all the wrong places—it was hard to be around them, to say the least.

Greg and Molly galvanized into one blushing, giggling, kissing unit. Sherlock avoided looking in their general direction while examining the body, trying to uphold some level of professionalism, but his thoughts soon went wandering back to the morning, to the delightful sounds his tongue had drawn from John’s. He once again wished himself transported back home. Or at least to a space with some privacy. A supply closet or something. Just to be alone with John, his John.

Sherlock gazed at him. He was standing on the other side of the slab, awkwardness personified, while Greg purred something fortunately indistinguishable in Molly’s ear. John shot Sherlock a clandestine grin, forcing him to bite his lip in order to keep in the snicker tingling his throat. As they finally sat in a cab headed back to Baker Street, bright giggles erupted between their breaths.

“Please tell me we’re not that soppy,” John said, his fingers instinctively finding Sherlock’s to betray his words.

Sherlock leaned into him, his lungs slowly recovering from the strain of supressed laughter. “I should hope so. Otherwise, I couldn’t allow us to go out in public together—ever.”

John snorted approvingly. “That would make press conferences rather awkward.”

“True.”

Fused together in the backseat, their laughter slowly ebbed away. London crept by outside, smudged and dazed.

John’s voice was unshakeably calm as he spoke again: “Will you tell me now what you did in the garden?”

Sherlock looked at him, caught off guard. After a beat, he sighed melodramatically and pulled something shiny from his pocket. John eyed the diamond ring with sceptical surprise, his face one big question mark.

“It’s Mrs. Beaumont’s,” Sherlock explained, ”I suspect her engagement ring. I found it in the garden.”

“How?”

“I was looking for it. Although we’ve eliminated murder, I figured that Jason’s secret boyfriend didn’t call an ambulance because some other criminal activity was involved, the most probable being either drugs or theft. There were no signs of drug abuse in Jason’s bedroom and his mother reacted suspiciously when I asked about things going missing in their home. She was clearly hiding something, possibly because she suspected Jason to have relapsed and didn’t want her husband to find out. I guess having a kleptomaniac son doesn’t play well for a Chief Superintendent.”

John’s eyes kept springing back and forth between Sherlock and the tiny, golden ring. “Okay, makes sense but… why a ring?”

“She kept touching her ring finger beneath her wedding ring. I bet she usually wears the ring but took it off last night to replace it with showier jewellery. You saw the house: the Beaumonts attach importance to outer appearances.”

“So, what does this mean? Jason’s boyfriend stole his mother’s engagement ring? Why?”

“Money. Or maybe he’s got kleptomaniac tendencies as well. Hard to tell.”

“But a missing engagement ring, one she wears every day… wouldn’t that be conspicuous? Why not go for something more low-key? There was plenty of other valuable stuff in that house.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe he’s not that bright. Or he just wanted something that’s easy to pawn or sell. Perhaps he’s in desperate need for money or he got too carefree, who knows. This probably wasn’t the first time he nicked something from the Beaumonts.”

“So, you think that Jason finally caught his boyfriend stealing, they fought about it until Jason’s heart gave out and the ring got lost in the hubbub?”

Sherlock grinned proudly at him. “Exactly.”

John raised his brows, head swaying from side to side as he weighed Sherlock’s deduction. “Makes sense. Why didn’t you tell Greg right away? Don’t you think he ought to know, with his boss involved in the whole thing?”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell him. I can’t predict Mr. Beaumont’s reaction to any of these hypotheses but he’d likely try to influence the investigation to spare himself and his wife any further humiliation or pain. I didn’t want to cause Greg any problems by confronting the Beaumonts right away.”

A quiet smile flickered over John’s lips, making Sherlock question the rationality of his thought process since John obviously found it amusing. Was there anything funny about him trying to not tank Greg’s career?

John regained a neutral expression. “So, what’s your plan then if you don’t want to get Greg involved yet?”

“If the thief is indeed in a tight spot moneywise, chances are he’ll try to recover his haul as soon as he can enter the crime scene undetected. Since the police have already left, all he has to do is wait for the Beaumonts to go to sleep and sneak into the garden.”

“And?”

“And we will wait for him.”

 

This was tedious. Sherlock felt the cold creep into every fibre of his being, damp fingers gripping at his face and body. His legs were already numb from the strain of hunkering down for so long and his nose and ears would surely fall off any second now.

John slightly shifted his weight next to him. Although his eyes had adapted to the gloom of the Beaumont’s garden, Sherlock sensed the frown on his fiancé’s face more than he saw it. He couldn’t blame him. Their cozy armchairs in front of the fireplace back in 221B had never seemed so enticing.

“How do we always end up on such remarkably uncomfortable stake-outs?” John’s voice hissed through the darkness.

“It’s part of the job.”

John snorted. “Just for once I’d like to stake out someone while having a pint in a pub or eating at a nice, warm restaurant.”

“You mean like our first case together?” Sherlock pointed out.

John’s voice adumbrated the smile on his face. “Yeah, like that. I could do one of those every night.”

Sherlock felt some warmth spread in his chest despite his freezing environment. Their first dinner at Angelo’s was one of his fondest memories. “That’d be nice indeed.”

For a few minutes, they sank back into silence. The bare-branched trees in the back of the garden looked like the skeletons of some long-forgotten civilisation’s high priests, their black hands raised to the sky in prayer. If they’d just stretched a little further, their scrawny fingers might have caught the low-hanging clouds drifting over the moon.

John finally whispered: “By the way, you could’ve let me in earlier… on this whole theory. I wouldn’t’ve told Greg.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d approve. And you’re not exactly great at keeping secrets.”

“Not great at keeping secrets?” John bristled, turning to Sherlock. “I’ve kept a bloody huge one for thirty years, thank you very much. I thought we’ve had that discussion after you came back. Well, nice to know you’re still convinced that I can’t—”

“Shhh”, Sherlock interrupted him, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed on the garden spread out in front of them.

John was furious. “Are you seriously shushing me—”

“Yes, shut up, I think I hear something.”

Sherlock gestured over to the hedge guarding the property. Something was rustling in them. Next to him, John fell silent as abruptly as if someone had pressed a mute button. Everything was perfectly still. Then, the rustling resumed, more forcefully this time.

Both of them instinctively held their breath as a dark figure emerged from the shadows and snuck onto the lawn. The diffuse moonlight was barely sufficient to distinguish its outline against the general darkness: the silhouette of broad-shouldered man, clad in black trousers and a sweatshirt. The hood, pulled down as far as possible, shielded his face from unwanted observers.

Neither one daring to move a finger, John and Sherlock watched the intruder squat down only a couple of meters away, his back turned towards them, and rummage around in his pockets. Every few seconds, he nervously looked over his shoulder. Sherlock crouched deeper into the shadows, weighing his options.

A tiny, blueish light illuminated the night— _his phone or a mini flashlight_ —and the inconnu began to hastily examine the ground beneath him. His face was still indistinguishable.

“Looking for something?” Sherlock said, rising to his full height and swiftly bridging the distance between him and the stranger.

The addressee tumbled backwards at the sound penetrating the silence but conquered his shock remarkably quickly. It took him only a split second to raise the flashlight to Sherlock’s face who had to shut his eyes against the sudden brightness. Still, his vision turned painfully white. The next moment, he felt someone shove past him towards the garden gate. Sherlock grabbed at the stranger but only lay hold of a handful of fabric which was almost immediately torn from his grasp again.

Cursing, he took up the chase but the white spots still dancing before his eyes made navigating the garden a tedious undertaking. He stumbled more than actually running.

A notable distance ahead of him, nothing more than a blurry silhouette, the stranger had almost reached the street already. Damn, he was fast.

A second pair of rapid steps joined and then passed Sherlock by.

“Stop!” John’s voice cut through the darkness and Sherlock followed it half-blindly.

He didn’t bother with the gate and jumped straight over the fence. His longer legs caught up with John and he risked a glance at him, seeing his own determined yet thrilled expression mirrored back at him.

The streetlights made the pursuit easier but their prey had a significant head start. They chased him through a tangle of smaller streets, their hot breaths forming angry clouds in the winter air. Sherlock’s lungs were on fire.

Feet hammering on the pavement, the stranger turned into another side street. Sherlock reached the crossing first and found himself almost colliding with a young couple. The whole street was crawling with people, blocking his way and sight.

_Clever_ , Sherlock thought, _disappearing in a crowd_. For a few painful heartbeats, he craned his neck, trying to spot a black hoody in the masses. John bumped into him as he caught up and surveyed the situation.

“Oh bloody—,” John began, then raising his voice. “Police! Out of the way!” he yelled, his voice radiating authority. Sherlock’s heart gave a jolt completely unrelated to physical strain. “Thief! Someone stop him!”

Faces with varying expressions of worry, confusion, and intrigue turned towards them—and a few meters ahead, a dark figure was startled and began shoving people aside in a desperate attempt to get away. A woman stumbled into her friends as he pushed her and let out a cry.

“There! Stop! Police!”

The crowd now split less reluctantly as John and Sherlock resumed their pursuit. A few people even tried to grab the fugitive but none succeeded. He dodged their hands and ran at full speed into another alley. They sprinted after him, Sherlock’s legs already protesting adamantly. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. His prey, however, seemed to have inexhaustible strengths at his disposal and gradually but surely extended his lead.

They barely caught a glimpse of him as he turned the next corner but Sherlock’s mental map began to blink in bright red. He could already feel the triumphant laughter tickle his lips. _That’s a cul-de-sac, idiot. We got you._

They rushed around the corner—and found the alley in front of them completely deserted. Both slithering to a halt, they eyed the brick walls full of more or less skilfully applied graffiti, the heavy back entrances of various restaurants and cafés, and the few dirty cardboard boxes and trash bags leaned against wheelie bins. None of them offered enough shelter for a person to hide.

John walked a few meters down the street, just to be sure, while Sherlock tried to decide whether he was impressed or frustrated.

“Damn it!” John kicked one of the bins half-heartedly. “We’ve lost him.”

“The way you—with the people—,” Sherlock panted, the metallic taste of utter exhaustion on his tongue. “That was— You are—” The rest of the sentence got stuck somewhere in his aching lungs as John turned around.

He ran one hand through his hair, fixing the damage the running had done only superficially; There was still a stray strand hanging into his face. His cheeks were flushed by adrenaline, his eyes almost glowing in the semi-darkness. Even if they hadn’t just run after a suspect, this sight would have been more than enough to take Sherlock’s breath away.

He felt transported back to the first night they had spent together, the first chase for the first case. The way their steps had echoed in the streets Sherlock knew better than the palm of his hands—John beside him had coloured them so differently, like a new lens being slipped over Sherlock’s vision, filtering the ugly parts out and only leaving brighter, more exciting shapes.

He had known at that moment, he suspected now, when they had returned to Baker Street, chests heaving with heavy breaths and completely inappropriate giggles. That had been the moment, the moment he had fallen in love with John. He had never stood a chance really, had been drawn in from the very first second he had lain eyes on the pretty soldier, the real-life hero, the war-addict. No, he hadn’t stood a chance to not fall for John Watson. And now, finally, eight years later, he was still not done falling, but John was there to catch him.

Sherlock took another deep breath and closed the distance between them, uncontainable relief and longing flooding his system. “— absolutely amazing.”

He crashed his lips to John’s, fusing past and present in a desperate kiss. John’s lips opened in a warm welcome, inviting and entering at the same time.

Before Sherlock knew it, he found himself pressed against the cold brick wall, his body pliant under John’s touch. Their lungs still aching with fatigue, breathing life into each other’s mouths, they fumbled around in the dark until fabric and belts and zippers gave way. Adrenaline really made for an amazing aphrodisiac.

When they returned to one of the busier streets, with wobbly legs and mischievous grins, midnight had already passed. Fingers intertwined, they threaded through the few people crossing their path when John’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He fished it out of his pocket with his free hand, determined to not let go of Sherlock. The cold light of the screen painted his face with deeper ridges and sharper edges.

“Four texts from Greg asking if you’d figured anything out,” he said, his eyes skimming through the messages under furrowed brows. “Man, he really is nervous about this case, isn’t he?”

Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt, his brain too heavily marinated in endorphins to form an actual sentence. He barely registered where he was. As John continued his way to the main road, Sherlock followed him blindly like a sleep-walking puppy, his lead consisting of John’s warm hand in his.

“Can we tell him now? About the ring and everything,” John asked, stifling a yawn and watching the passing cars and their drivers, unfazed by the temperatures outside, with obvious envy.

Sherlock blinked, the words taking an annoyingly long time to make sense. “Who?”

“Greg.”

Sherlock supressed the urge to shake his head to get rid of the haze and took a deep breath instead. The roaring engines and the piercing scent of imminent snow washed away at least some of his drowsiness. Next to him, John raised his shoulders against the freezing January air. They had better get home.

“He’s probably already asleep by now,” Sherlock shrugged, trying to sound convincing although he was confident enough in his character analysis of Greg to be sure that sleeping was the last thing on the DI’s mind right now.

As if John had heard his thoughts, he said: “The last message came only a few minutes ago… and sounds kind of desperate. I bet he’s still at the office.”

As Sherlock raised his arm to flag down a cab, John continued: “What’s the harm in popping over there and telling him? After tonight, the chances for the thief to return are next to non-existent, so there’s no use in keeping the information—or the ring—to ourselves. It’s evidence after all. And the motive is not exactly irrelevant for the case, don’t you think?”

“Alright, text him back,” Sherlock gave in.

“Already did,” John said innocently. “He’s waiting for us at the Yard.”

Sherlock stared at him, half-impressed, half-affronted by his initiative. A cab pulled over and John only grinned before opening the door for Sherlock to climb in. Then he dropped down on the back seat next to him.

Sherlock sighed. John was probably right and the involvement of Greg’s boss didn’t leave much room for avoidable mistakes. Still, the ebbing adrenaline had his whole body screaming for a little rest.

“New Scotland Yard, please,” he told the cabbie before turning towards John and taking his hand. “For once,” he confessed as his thumb rubbed intricate patterns into John’s skin, “I’d much rather go home—on-going case or not.”

“Me too, honey. I’m not especially in the mood to be yelled at. I bet Greg won’t be too excited about our little un-supervised adventure.”

“He should be used to it by now.”

 

For the time of night, the Yard was still remarkably busy. As they walked down the hall, John and Sherlock passed several bobbies with disgruntled-looking people in tow. Even the huge office was still buzzing with tense noise instead of the usual low rustling and typing of paperwork.

Sherlock glanced over the desks. There were definitely more officers present than usually worked on the night shift. And going by the state of the communal kitchen, the coffee intake had increased by at least 40 %, Sherlock quickly calculated. It seemed that the case had everyone on high alert.

Greg wasn’t the only one working late. Sherlock spotted Sergeant Donovan hunched over her desk, arguing with someone on the phone. Her already thin patience was visibly running out as she spat out the words in rapid succession, only interrupting her call to carpet the detective next to her for not keeping it down while interviewing a runaway. The other cop— _Bradley or Bailey or something_ —made an apologetic grimace but rolled his eyes at the kid he was questioning as soon as Donovan turned her back to him again. The scruffy-looking girl tried to supress a smile but couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of her face. Sherlock, too, felt his lips twitch before he followed John into the DI’s office.

“Busy night?” Sherlock said in lieu of greeting.

“Amazing what the boss staring down at you can do for general productivity,” Greg replied wearily and rubbed his neck as if unconsciously trying to shield himself from inspecting glares. “Not that anything useful has come out of it yet.”

“No leads then?”

“Canvassing didn’t yield anything. Neither did the tox screen or the autopsy. Except for the broken ribs, and the fact that he had a heart attack, Jason was perfectly healthy. We’re still questioning all the neighbours but I’m sure whoever heard or saw something would’ve contacted us by now. In a neighbourhood like that… We’ve also checked Jason’s phone and computer: no text messages or social media activity suggesting that he had a boyfriend. But since Jason seemed to have been good with that sort of stuff we can’t know for sure until one of the IT guys has had a proper look at it. So, we still have no idea who was with Jason when he died and what they fought about.”

“Well, we might be able to help with that,” John said and told Greg all about their theory and the subsequent nightly encounter with the thief. As suspected, he wasn’t thrilled.

“So, this guy, Jason’s boyfriend, stole his mother’s engagement ring and Jason caught him? And he was desperate enough to come back to the crime scene?” Greg asked, voice cold and unbending like steel. On the desk he was leaning against, his phone began to ring, the beeping cutting through the silence like a foghorn. Greg ignored it.

“And you didn’t deem it necessary to tell me about the theft before because—?”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and explained: “Due to your professional connection to the Beaumonts, I thought it best to involve you as little as possible until we’d confirmed my theory and ruled out their involvement in Jason’s death.”

“How gracious,” Greg sighed and rubbed his face.

“So as not to cause you any moral conflict or trouble,” Sherlock added, confident that his reasoning would suffice to calm Greg down. Apparently, he was mistaken, since Greg raised his eyebrows and his voice.

“I’ve had it up to here with your secretiveness,” he barked, the sinews on his neck visibly tightening. “I am still in charge here, Sherlock. I am responsible. Haven’t I earned your trust by now or what kind of shit is this? When will you finally stop going rogue under my supervision?”

“We’ve solved dozens of cases like that and you never seemed to—”

“After all we’ve been through this past year! Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic just now? It’s not like—”

“Dramatic? _Dramatic_!” Greg’s eyes went wide with fury as he pushed himself off the desk and stepped closer. “He could’ve been armed, Sherlock.”

“He wasn’t.”

“He could’ve been. No one knew where you two were. What if something had happened to either of you? Don’t you ever think about that? Don’t you ever think about Rosie? Won’t you ever grow up and realize that your actions have fucking consequences for other people? I’m telling you now: Someday this sort of behaviour will be the death of you two bloody idiots and I won’t stick around to watch, that’s for sure. You either get your heads out of your arses or, God help me, we’ll end this collaboration right here right now.”

“And then what?” Sherlock hissed, the accusations stinging in his chest. “You let your clearance rate drop to the floor? You need me.”

“Damn right I do but, more importantly, I need you to stay alive, you bastard!” Greg bellowed with an intensity that seemed to startle himself the most.

Sherlock already had a response prickling on his tongue when John stepped between them: “Now, boys, maybe you could both calm down or—”

Before he could finish, the office door was flung open and Sergeant Donovan barged into the room, stopping in the frame as if the tension hanging in the air was a brick wall. Her eyes flicked back and forth between them before landing on her superior, and she regained her composure: “Why aren’t you picking up your phone? We’ve got DNA.”

 

“I thought there were no usable samples,” John asked Molly as they huddled around Lestrade’s phone. He had put it on speaker while they waited for the system to process the data and hopefully cough up a name and an address.

“There wasn’t on his clothes or under his nails,” Molly’s tinny voice came from the speaker, “but since you said there was a good chance the suspect was his boyfriend I thought it would be a good idea to… check for recent sexual intercourse although you didn’t particularly request it. So, I stayed late and did some smear tests and found traces of— sperm in his throat.”

Sherlock could almost hear her blush over the phone. Although, that was admittedly a pretty genius idea.

“Great job,” Lestrade complimented her with a pointed look at Sherlock, “thank you.”

“We’ve got a match,” Donovan reported and nodded at the computer. “A Calvin Rowley, 19.”

“Rowley? Isn’t that—,” Lestrade murmured and dug through the files on his desk until he triumphantly pointed to a list. “Yes, he was on Jason’s graffiti removal squad, got 120 hours for common assault.”

“That’s where they met then,” John concluded and looked at the picture on the screen. “The stature and height fits our nightly intruder.”

 “Got his address?” Lestrade asked Donovan and grabbed his jacket.

The Sergeant looked at him with raised brows. “You want to go there now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hell yeah, I want to go there now. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

 

For once, John and Sherlock agreed to ride in a police car. Donovan was driving; a fact that Lestrade took advantage of by turning around in his seat every few seconds and eyeing them both sternly.

“You can come in—”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look. “ _After_ we’ve arrested him. I don’t need you standing in the way.”

“He won’t be there anyway if he’s not a total idiot,” Sherlock murmured, not trying to disguise how miffed he was by Lestrade’s general reaction. He was trying to help after all.

“Then we will question his parents and search his room. And you will only chime in _if I say so_ , understood?”

“Is this really necessary?” John tried to intervene but Lestrade didn’t fall for his appeasing tone.

“Understood?” he repeated, more harshly this time.

“Understood,” John and Sherlock growled in unison.

 

They ended up in a narrow street framed by shabby blocks of flats. The names on the bell panel were smudged and barely readable. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell that hit him as they were buzzed in and entered the building.

“He’s definitely not here,” Sherlock warbled, his hands behind his back, as they reached the Rowley’s flat.

“For once, just stay quiet and deduce,” Lestrade hissed under his breath. Grudgingly, John and Sherlock took a back seat and merely watched as a man in a chequered dressing gown opened the door.

Lestrade invited himself and Donovan, and finally John and Sherlock, into the Rowley’s home. While he still showed his batch, a woman emerged from what Sherlock suspected to be the bedroom. She, too, wore a dressing gown and her look was rather dazed. Sherlock could smell cheap perfume and cheaper liquor.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr. and Mrs. Rowley” Lestrade said, “but we hoped to talk to your son, Calvin.”

“What did the good-for-nothing do now?” Mr. Rowley asked with an air of equal parts defiance and exasperation.

“We just have a few questions. This is his current address, right?”

“Yeah but he’s not home, hasn’t been for a couple of days.”

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a look. “Where is he then?”

“Dunno.”

“You have no idea where your son might be?”

“Cal’s 19, none of our business anymore,” Mr. Rowley shrugged and warily eyed Sherlock who had begun to wander around their living room.

Lestrade continued the questioning but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rowley produced anything useful. Apparently, Cal only came home every once in a while. His parents didn’t know where he spent his nights, where he worked, if he had known Jason.

Sherlock could see the disappointment on Lestrade’s face as he smiled politely, handed Mr. Rowley his card, and said: “If you think of anything or Cal shows up, please contact me.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rowley, if I may ask,” Sherlock began, ignoring Lestrade’s fiery stare in light of his unauthorized utterance, “where’s your daughter?”

Both seemed rather dumbfounded. “Laney?” said Mrs. Rowley. “She’s… err… at a friend’s house. Sleepover.”

Sherlock nodded with a smile. “Ah, how nice. Sorry again for the disturbance. Goodnight.”

Without another word, he left the flat, John, Lestrade, and Donovan closely following behind.

“What was that about the daughter? How did you know they had one?” Lestrade asked in a strained voice as they reached the car, all four of them inhaling the fresh air deeply. The Rowley’s flat had been an olfactory assault.

“There were toys. And this.” Sherlock pulled a picture frame out of his coat and handed it to Lestrade.

Donovan snorted at his little theft. “Typical.”

Sherlock ignored her. “Family portrait. Cal’s about 14, the girl maybe 6. Who lets an eleven-year old sleep over at a friend’s house on a school night? If you ask me, those parents have no idea where their children are—either of them. Maybe they’re both just too drunk to remember or care. You should send child services over there as soon as you find the girl. Something about her…”

Sherlock trailed off. That girl’s face, freckled and framed by ginger pigtails, had kicked something off in his brain, an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“She looks familiar,” John said, looking over Lestrade’s shoulder. “I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”

“Me too,” Sherlock sighed, tearing at his hair. But where? _Where_?

Finally, Donovan risked a look at the Rowley family portrait. Her eyes went wide.

“That’s that girl!” she exclaimed. “That girl that was brought in earlier.”

Sherlock clapped his hands in relief. “Yes! The runaway! I saw Detective Bradley or Bailey or whatever his name is interview her.”

“His name is Rutherford but okay.”

“How did she end up at the Yard? And why didn’t Rutherford inform her parents? If it really is Laney,” John said, cocking his head suggestively.

“I’m positive. We need to talk to her.” Sherlock jumped onto the back seat of the car and impatiently drummed his fingers against the armrest.

 

“Rutherford,” Lestrade yelled as soon as they entered the office space.

The young detective scrambled to his feet, a frightened look on his face. “Yes, Sir?”

“Where’s that girl you’ve been interviewing? What’s her name?”

“She—she wouldn’t tell me. Barely said a word at all… and she didn’t have any identification on her… err… no phone or anything. No one fitting her description in missing persons—”

“Where is she now?” Sherlock reiterated.

“She was so upset and so tired. I told her she could sleep on the sofa in the break room,” Rutherford admitted sheepishly. “She’s only a child. And I didn’t want her to stay in children’s services’ custody all by herself.”

Lestrade smiled understandingly and gave the young man a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Well done, Rutherford.”

The detective smiled shyly, not quite sure how he had escaped a scolding. “Thank you, Sir.”

 

On the worn-out sofa, they indeed found a girl, tightly rolled into a ball under one of the shock blankets. Her ginger hair blurred into the orange fabric and she looked distinctively pale under her freckles. Even while asleep, she had her brows knitted in worry.

“It’s definitely her,” Sherlock said.

Sergeant Donovan knelt down beside her and gently nudged her shoulder. “Laney?”

Light lashes fluttered and a pair of tired blue eyes appeared. With a startle, the girl sat up and eyed them suspiciously.

“It’s alright, Laney,” Donovan continued with the same gentle voice.

The girl seemed even more alarmed. “How do you know my name?”

Lestrade stepped forward and placatingly raised his hands as Laney crouched deeper into the cushions. “We’re looking for your brother. Do you know where he is?”

She stuck her chin out defiantly but her voice wavered. “He didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t arrest him.”

“We just want to talk to him,” Lestrade assured her but Laney only crossed her arms.

“He won’t talk to you. And I won’t tell you where he is. It’s a secret. He said not to tell anybody. Especially not cops.”

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a look, as did John and Sherlock.

“It’s alright, Laney,” said Donovan compassionately. “You must be frightened and very tired. We’ll just call your parents and get you home. And then maybe we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

“No,” she protested, fear rising in her eyes, along with tears. “No, please. I don’t want to go back there. He said I never have to go back. He said we’d go away together.”

Now John, his shoulders weighed down by sympathy, chimed in: “You were supposed to be with Cal instead, Laney, weren’t you? Was he supposed to look after you? He’ll be worried sick if you’re gone, won’t he?”

Laney shook her head, her voice now distorted to a sob. “I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you.”

“Laney, we just want to find Cal before he gets into trouble. You don’t want Cal to get into trouble, do you?”

She sniffed. “No.”

“I’m not a police officer, Laney,” John said. Lestrade and Donovan took the hint and slowly backed off. “I’m just concerned about you and your brother. Do you think you could tell me? It’s really important that we find and help him, so you two can still go away together.”

“I can’t tell you,” Laney wailed, repeating it over and over while red-hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

Sherlock’s insides clenched at the scene. The poor girl. Neglected or even abused by her parents and now her older brother, the only fixture in her life, was also gone.

How being confronted with another broken home must feel like for John. Old traumas stirred up and reheated, his own tragedy mirrored in so young a face. Sherlock couldn’t help but admire the gentle strength with which John handled the situation.

Sergeant Donovan kneeled back down and offered Laney a tissue. “Don’t worry, Laney, it’s alright. You can stay here for tonight. We’re not making you go back, don’t you worry. It’s alright.”

Laney kept crying and Donovan gestured for the three men to leave them alone for the time being.

Outside, John gave a deep, weary sigh. Sherlock placed a hand on his back, a silent offer of rest if he needed it. A _we can go home if you want to_ , a _you’ve done enough_. John turned around and gave him a thankful smile, leaning into the touch.

“We’ll just try again in the morning and give out a search warrant for Calvin Rowley,” Lestrade said. Sherlock could see his craving for a cigarette in the twitching of his fingers.

They exchanged short goodbyes and John and Sherlock made for the exit while Lestrade returned to his office. On the way out, they passed Rutherford again. Something in Sherlock’s brain clicked into place.

“Just a second, Rutherford,” he stopped him. “How and where exactly did you find Laney?”

“I… err… I was getting coffee at this small 24-hour café and she was buying a sandwich and I just found it strange to see a small child wander about at that time at night without an adult, so I stopped her and asked where her parents were and when she didn’t tell me I brought her here. I… only thought—”

“Where exactly was that café?”

Rutherford named an address and Sherlock nodded in grim triumph. Without another word, he took John’s hand and rushed out of the office space.

“What was that?” John asked as Sherlock dragged him down the hall.

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock said and dove into a ramble. “The café is right around the corner where we lost Cal. Their parents’ home is in a completely different part of town. How did Laney get there? Why was she there in the middle of the night? Probably to meet with her brother.

“But Cal was out looking for the ring. He needed it, needed some money to get him and Laney off the grid for a while. You’ve seen the parents and you’ve seen how closed-off Laney was towards the police. She’s deeply traumatised and Cal can’t do anything without money.

“And there’s Jason in that giant house with all these riches lying around, so Cal decides to nick a thing or two. They won’t even notice. Until he got too careless and took the ring and Jason found out. They fight, the ring gets lost when Jason collapses, and Cal panics. He has priors and just stolen a 1.6-carat diamond ring, from the Police Super Intendent’s wife of all people.

“He tries to reanimate Jason but fails. He’s completely out of his mind and just flees the scene. But he still needs the ring. So, he comes back and we startle him.

“If you got chased by two strangers, you’d probably try to get to safety. I was already suspicious because he seemed to know the area remarkably well and then he just disappeared. With that much adrenaline, your brain mostly works on auto-pilot. So, where do you run if not home? I bet he’s got some kind of hide-out there where he and Laney were supposed to meet, so he could get her out of their parents’ reach. We’ll have to go back and look.”

John’s brows cast deep shadows over his eyes. “We’ve already looked. There wasn’t anywhere he could’ve gone.”

Sherlock shook his head. “There must’ve been. I’m sure.”

“Don’t you think we should tell Greg? He’s already so pissed at us.”

“I’ll call him when we’ve found something.”

John sighed. “This is you punishing him for scolding you, innit?”

“Maybe.”

 

“You’ve got your gun with you, don’t you? Just in case?” Sherlock asked in a whisper as they entered the same backstreets they had left only hours earlier. John hummed affirmatively and padded his pocket.

It had begun to snow again and the grimy pavement was covered in a thin white layer, already melting into an abstract pattern of puddles.

“It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

They split and began looking for possible hide-outs in one of the houses. After a few minutes, John waved him over and gestured to be quiet: Behind one of the bigger wheelie bins, there was a door with a broken padlock hanging from it. The snow had been freshly shoved aside—recently opened then.

John took out his gun as they opened the door. Behind it lay a hall stuffed with giant storage boxes and euro-pallets. In the back, a staircase led to another floor, from which creaking steps could be heard. Sherlock pointed at the ceiling, then brought his finger to his lips. John nodded, determination glowing in his eyes. Carefully, they ascended.

The door to one of the rooms was only ajar. They exchanged another look and John, his gun at the ready, nodded. Sherlock pushed the door open and took in his surroundings with one swift glance, calculating the proximity and accessibility of all possible exits. There was just one broken window allowing the diffuse orange light from the street to enter. Blocked and refracted by pieces of wood and plastic sheets fixed in the window frame, it dimly illuminated a dusty room only furnished with a worn-out mattress and a table made out of bricks and chipboard.

A boy in a dark sweatshirt stood in the far left-hand corner, his back turned to them, shaking with rapid breathing. As he whirled around, Sherlock’s chest tightened painfully. The boy’s face, unshaven and sickly, was as pale as ivory; it almost shone in the semi-darkness. Cold, frightful sweat had glued his fringe to his forehead in dishevelled strands. Hadn’t his shoulders moved with the effort to provide his body with oxygen, Sherlock would’ve been sure that he was looking at a marble statue rather than a human being, an unsettling sculpture depicting a lost childhood. Everything about this boy screamed of absolute and utter helplessness.

A curious desire to reach out to Cal rose in Sherlock’s heart, so urgent that he had trouble stopping himself from sticking his hand out. Just to gently touch his shoulder, stroke his back until he knew that they wouldn’t harm him, that they would set things right again.

Cal hadn’t hurt Jason after all. He had just tried to protect his sister and manoeuvred himself into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced.

Until Cal raised his gaze and met his. Eyes like glimmering bits of coal stared at him, full of fear, of desperation, of anger, of determination, of –

Something wasn’t right.

 

***

 

“I didn’t see it. I knew I missed something but I just… didn’t see it.” Sherlock raised his head to meet Lestrade’s impenetrable gaze. The DI hadn’t said a thing since Sherlock had started talking, not even to interrupt his retelling of the caresses in the alley. All tired eyes and unshaven chin, he still looked at Sherlock now, waiting for him to continue.

Sherlock swallowed heavily. His tongue tasted like ash as he spoke again.

“He had a gun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that cliff hanger, the next chapter won't take this long, promise ;)


	5. John's Chapter: Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** : gun violence
> 
> This chapter's song is: [Natalie Taylor, Latch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tklJObFpqw)

# John’s Chapter: Yours

_Now I got you in my space,_

_I won’t let go of you._

_Got you shackled in my embrace,_

_I’m latching on to you._

 

Natalie Taylor, Latch.

 

Cal cowered in the corner, his still childlike features wrecked with too much horror, too much panic, too many bad decisions—John would never forget his face.

The gun in his hands was shaking as he raised it, pointing at Sherlock. “Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?”

Sherlock only stared at him, his mouth opening but not a single word coming out. His eyes shifted over to John, a pleading expression guttering in their depths.

John took the hint and answered with the same voice he had used on the new recruits when the harsh reality of war threatened to overwhelm them. “Cal, my name is Dr. John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We’re not gonna harm you but you have to put down the gun now, okay?”

“I’m not gonna fall for that.” Cal’s voice rose to hysteric heights. “How stupid do you think I am?!”

Now that his eyes adapted to the semi-darkness, John could see the drops of sweat pearling above Cal’s mouth. _Oh dear_. “Calm down, alright? We know that everything seems hopeless right now but _this”—_ John pointedly looked at the gun—“isn’t an option. You can still set things right. You stole a few things but we retrieved the ring and if you give back the other—”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Cal protested. “Jason gave it to me, all of these things. He said his parents wouldn’t notice… and I needed the money. He… he just wanted to help me.”

If this was true… John’s insides clenched into a tight ball. Not a thief then, not exactly at least.

He glanced at Sherlock who was still standing a few feet away, silent and unmoving, his eyes wide and fixed on Cal’s slightly quivering gun.

John softened his voice to a sympathetic murmur, a shallow lake, clear and forgiving, for Cal to wash clean in. “He must’ve loved you very much. And you loved him, didn’t you?”

Cal nodded, lowering the weapon a little. In the dim light, his arm threw a long, ghostly shadow onto the grimy floor.

“Did Jason know how bad things are at home?”

Cal nodded again, his head sinking to his chest.

For a few seconds, silence filled the dismal room. John only now noticed how the winter air seeped through the broken window. He began to wonder how often Cal had spent the night on the dirty mattress on the floor instead of a warm bed.

“They… they beat us,” Cal whispered finally. “When they drink. And they always drink.” A bitter little laugh formed a white cloud in front of his mouth.

“I hit back once and the only thing the police did was give me anger management therapy and force me to remove graffiti for hours and hours. They sent someone by our flat and nothing happened. No one actually cared. And things got so much worse afterwards. I could’ve taken it but my sister… She’s so young, so soft. And she’s stuck with them every day.”

His voice got hollow. “I see the way my father looks at her, now that she’s growing up so fast. I couldn’t leave her there. I had to do something.”

“I know how you feel,” John said, meeting Cal’s sceptical eyes with steadfast calmness. “I really do. After my mom died, my father turned to alcohol and hit my sister any chance he got. I still feel like I should’ve protected her better, stepped up to him. I honestly admire what you’re trying to do for your sister. And I’m sure so did Jason or he wouldn’t’ve supported you like that. You both thought this was the only way out and I totally understand that—”

“There _is_ no other way. I had no other choice. And now everything’s ruined and it doesn’t matter anymore.” Cal curled in on himself, pressing both hands to his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Doesn’t matter.”

John tried to uphold the connection. _Don’t lose him now_. “But, Cal, don’t you think if Jason loved you this much that he wouldn’t’ve wanted you to end up in jail? We’ll explain everything and if you cooperate, I’m sure—”

“I’ll never know what he would’ve wanted now, will I?” Cal howled, choked by the tears brimming in his eyes. “Because he’s dead and everyone’ll think I killed him!”

“We don’t think so, Cal,” John assured him, making a tentative step towards the boy. “We’ll vouch for you. All you have to do is give me your gun.”

Fury distorted Cal’s face. He raised the gun again, hectically pointing it at John. “No fucking way! You listen to me: You’ll let me walk out of here or I swear to God— I’ll shoot you both!”

Next to him, Sherlock gave a jolt and a little indistinguishable whimper. John quickly kept talking, drawing Cal’s attention back to himself. “Running isn’t an option, Cal, just put the gun down. You don’t want to do this. Think about Laney.”

The skin beneath Cal’s stubbly beard lost a little more colour. “What—? How—? Do you know where she is?”

“She’s safe, don’t worry,” John said, inching his way closer to him. _Get the gun, get the gun_. “The police picked her up, she’s at New Scotland Yard right now.”

At last, tears spilled from Cal’s eyes, hot and angry and desperate.

“You’re lying! All you cops ever do is lie!” he cried out.

John raised his hands calmingly. “We’re not cops, Cal. We just wanted to find out what happened to Jason. And now we know that it was an accident, just an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong, we know that. We don’t want to hurt you. See, I’m putting down my gun. Let’s just talk, alright? Just the three of us. Tell us what exactly happened. Put down the gun and—”

With screeching brakes, several cars came to a halt outside. Flashing red and blue lights bled through the inexpertly barricaded window hole and danced wildly across their faces. Cal’s eyes went wide in panic; John withstood the impulse to close his own defeatedly. Greg’s timing couldn’t be worse.

The adrenalin pumping through John’s veins splayed the all too familiar steely coating over his muscles, readying every fibre for imminent combat. Time slowed down around him. Between two heartbeats, he could see the boy slip from his grasp, running through his fingers like fog he had tried to catch. He needed to act. _Get the gun. Now._

“You’re lying, you’re all lying!” Cal’s voice shrieked loud enough for the officers outside to hear. As if in slow-motion, all-consuming panic rippled through his body. John could see his nerves light up like a Christmas tree. And he could pinpoint the exact moment Cal made one last fatal decision. _No!_

John pounced on him, arms spread out, begging his body to bridge the gap to the boy who suddenly seemed miles and miles away.

The gun shook in Cal’s loose grip as he raised it up to his chin. _Just knock it down, one hit is all it takes. Get the gun!_

The next second, a deafening bang slit the room in half.

John’s vision blurred.

 

***

 

The wound began to ache numbly now that the anaesthetic slowly wore off, a low throbbing pain at John’s side. It had only been a few stitches, nothing world-moving. No organs had been hit, it was merely a grazing shot. Why was everybody making such a big deal out of it? He had tended to injuries like his with far worse equipment and under far worse circumstances.

John opened his eyes. The pale light of breaking dawn shone through the windows and illuminated the hospital room. He must’ve fallen asleep for a while.

He sat up a little and rubbed his face.

What a night. What a catastrophic night. And yet, things could’ve have gone that much worse. For one, no one had died. Who would’ve thought that he’d count that as a win when they had taken the case.

Although the scenes were mangled by pain and blood loss, he could piece them together quite reliably: the gun that had gone off — Cal who had dropped it like scalding metal the next second — the officers rushing up the stairs and arresting the boy — Greg following closely behind and calling the ambulance — Sherlock’s pale face as he pressed his scarf down on the wound.

It was these images of Sherlock that slowly drove John out of his mind now.

He had been shaky but focused as long as he had something to do, as long as he could help. But, God, the unfiltered fear that had taken over as soon as the ambulancewoman had pushed him aside and kneeled down next to John.

Where was one of those damn shock blankets when you needed one? Had Greg taken care of him while John had been rushed to the hospital? How long had he been gone anyway? Why wasn’t Sherlock here yet?

John needed to get to him, needed to be sure that he was alright.

Sherlock had to be worried sick by now, probably running circles into the ground, blaming himself. God only knew what he would do.

John needed to see him, hold him, tell him everything would be fine.

He was just about to remove the IV when the door opened and a nurse stuck her face into the room.

“Dr. Watson? There’s someone who’d like—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence because Sherlock’s tall figure pushed past her, more carefully followed by Greg.

“John,” Sherlock breathed and all but fell to his knees beside John’s bed. “Are you alright? How’re you feeling? Are you in pain? Do you need stronger medication?”

“I am fine. Just a little tired,” John assured him and squeezed his hand. There were still traces of John’s blood where it had crept up Sherlock’s shirt sleeves.

“Can you,” Sherlock began, turning to the nurse, “can he go home?”

The nurse smiled apologetically. “The doctor would like to keep him in a little longer, I’m afraid.”

“Well, _this_ doctor says it’s totally fine,” John objected with a tired smile. “I’ll check myself out if you don’t mind.”

 

Having signed all papers, John swapped the hospital gown for his trousers and a shirt Greg had graciously brought from his locker. John’s own shirt and jacket had been ruined by the blood spill and the ambulancewoman’s scissors. To top things off, Sherlock handed John his own Belstaff with a stern look. John grumbled but put it on. The too-long coattail flopping around his legs, he left the hospital.

Sherlock gently supported John with a steady arm around his shoulder, glancing at him every few steps. The shadows beneath his eyes shimmered lilac in the rising sun as they stepped outside. John could only imagine how tired he must be.

Sherlock carefully parked John at the entrance and went to hail a cab. John leaned against one of the pillars framing the sliding doors and tried to take a deep breath. The damaged skin at his side tautened uncomfortably.

Next to him, Greg shifted his weight from leg to leg. He looked almost as bad as Sherlock.

John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the way things went down, Greg. I hope you won’t get into trouble with Beaumont over it all.”

“Don’t worry about that, mate. I’m just glad you’re alright.” Greg gave him a weary smile. “But maybe try talking Sherlock out of poisoning me if you can. I think he’s still quite pissed at me.”

John nodded and watched Sherlock finally convince one of the few passing cabs to stop. He came jogging back to them, carefully trying to hide how much he shivered under his thin, silky shirt. Lips pressed together, he helped John to the car. Greg accompanied them.

“How’s Cal? And Laney? What will happen to her now?” John asked, walking as fast as the fatigue and his injury allowed.

“They’re both pretty shaken up but fine considering what they’ve both been through. Children’s services are informed and have taken Laney to a foster family. Cal’s still in custody and under psychological supervision, given his suicide attempt. I’ll do what I can to get him out of this mess. Sherlock insisted.”

John shot Sherlock a quick glance, flooded by affection. How could anyone ever question his humanity?

They stopped by the car. “You’ll need an official statement from us then, won’t you?”

“Sherlock has already told me everything. You two go home to Rosie now. I’ll stop by tomorrow, alright? Get some rest first.”

John climbed onto the backseat and settled with a hiss. He had almost forgotten how much it sucked to get shot. As soon as they got home he’d take some of that pain medication. And sleep. For at least two days.

Sherlock glided in next to him and gave the cabbie their address. His arms crossed, he leaned against the door and stared at the passing buildings.

It was still early. The matutinal city, its busy buzzing subdued by the layers of snow the night had brought, seemed still fresh and full of promise. The clouds had vanished and given way to a blushing sun that coloured the sky and warmed John’s face through the window. He closed his eyes for a second, revelling in the relief that the new morning had broken eventually. Even a night like this couldn’t last forever.

“You’re awfully quiet,” John said after a few minutes. “Under other circumstances, I’d be thankful for the silence but now I’m starting to get worried.”

Sherlock raised his head. “Just tired is all.”

“I may not be the greatest at picking up on emotional cues but even I can tell that something’s on your mind, Sherlock. Don’t you remember what we promised at Angelo’s?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened as John reached for his hand. “Honesty,” he recalled with a compliant smile.

“C’mere.” John tugged at his fingers until Sherlock was closely snuggled against him, half-covered by the Belstaff, his head resting against John’s chest. Breathing a kiss onto Sherlock’s scalp, John murmured: “Now, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

For a few heartbeats, both remained silent. John knew not to push him and patiently waited for Sherlock to gather his courage.

“All I could see was someone’s son, John. Just a kid,” Sherlock’s voice finally fell into John’s lap, a small, fragile thing trying to crawl back into the darkness it had come from.

John tightened his grip around his fiancé, ignoring the protesting sting his side gave at the movement. His fingers rubbed soothing circles onto Sherlock’s skin. “But that’s not a bad thing, love.”

Sherlock raised his head, his piercing eyes almost affronted. “He was dangerous! Look what he did to you. It was pure luck that he didn’t hit any vital organs or…” He swallowed heavily. “It was me who pushed him to this extreme in the first place, with the whole nocturnal chase. Because I was so sure that Cal had stolen from his boyfriend and let him die to not get caught. I saw the pictures of Jason lying in the snow and all I could think of was Rosie. If someone had treated her the same way, pretended to love her just to let her down like this… I was so eager to catch the one responsible myself. And then, when we visited the Rowleys, I saw the abuse springing out from every corner and, again, everything inside my head screamed about Rosie, about how someone had to protect these kids, how I had to protect them.”

He heaved a heavy breath. “I… I could’ve lost you today. Just because I let my judgement be clouded. Ever since you and Rosie have been at Baker Street—I—I just find it hard to keep sentiment out of the equation.”

John’s lips twitched before he could help it.

“Why’re you smiling?” Sherlock exclaimed, looking irrefutably miserable. “I can’t work cases like this. I’ll just endanger you and everyone working with us if my brain is malfunctioning. No, I can’t work like this. I can’t work like this, John.”

Before John could even open his mouth to protest, Sherlock kept lamenting. “And what am I even good for if I can’t work? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever been good at. We both know that. That’s what brought you to me after all, didn’t it? The puzzles and the chases. All I’ve ever contributed to this relationship was the cases and the danger and the adrenaline—and if I can’t give you that—”

“Could you stop spiralling for a minute, honey?” John finally interrupted him, taking his wildly gesturing hands back into his own. Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide and chest heaving rapidly.

“Are you seriously worried about me leaving?” John asked and felt his heart drop as Sherlock nodded. “I’m not going anywhere, love. Ever. What kind of an idiot do you think I am? I’ve just got you, I’m not letting go of you ever again.”

A shy smile crept onto Sherlock’s lips and John pinned it in place with a kiss. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done today? You’ve considered people’s feelings, you were empathic and caring and still bloody brilliant. You could’ve hurled your deductions at Cal, all these cold, upsetting things—but you didn’t. You saw the situation Cal was in. He was desperate and reckless. The chances of all of us getting out of there unharmed were practically non-existent, especially with the police showing up. Just think about it! A couple of years ago, hell, even a few months ago, nothing would’ve stopped you obliterating that poor boy because he was a suspect. And then we’d be having a dead boy lying in the morgue right now. It was the right call to let me talk him down.”

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw and forced him to look him in the eyes. He weighed his next words carefully, layering every single one with meaning and warmth: “Letting your empathy and your qualms weigh in on your behaviour doesn’t make you a worse detective. It makes you better. It makes you human. And it makes me love you even more.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s palm, his voice still rippled by the waves of worry flooding him. “But you’ve got hurt.”

“It was an accidental discharge, love. It could’ve hit anyone. Those things happen. And I’ve got you to take care of me now.”

Sherlock snuggled closer again. His breathes got deeper and slower until John was sure he had fallen asleep in his arm.

 

Although it was still fairly early when they keyed open the door to 221B, there was already light seeping into the hall from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Sherlock was just helping John out of his coat when she opened the door, Rosie on her arm.

“There you are, my boys. I was wondering where—,” she began before she beheld the dark, rusty stains on Sherlock’s shirt cuffs. “Dear God, is that blood?!” she exclaimed, causing Rosie to startle and squirm in her arm.

“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. H.,” John reassured her with a weary smile and reached for his fussing daughter.

“Here, let me take her. Your side…,” Sherlock said and heaved the little girl into his arms. Rosie immediately grabbled at his face and giggled.

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms in front of her floral dressing gown. “What happened?”

Sherlock gave her a quick summary of last night’s events. “And when we confronted the suspect… John got shot,” he ended, guilt dripping from his voice.

“You got what?!”

John gave Sherlock a stern look before soothing Mrs. Hudson. “It only grazed me. I’m fine.”

“The trouble you boys get in.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Out all night, in the freezing cold, getting shot at… Have you at least eaten something? I know how you get when you’re on a case, Sherlock.”

With a pointed look at John, she added: “And you’re by now almost as bad as he is. I can rustle something up for you. A nice full English? You need something to take your meds with. And I still have a bit of morphine in my nightstand if you—”

“It’s fine, thank you, Mrs. H,” John declined. “We’ll just go to bed if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, dear. If you need anything let me know.”

“Actually… Would you mind looking after Rosie for a couple more hours?” John asked with an apologetic sigh. How many hours had it been since he’d last held his daughter properly?

“I can take care of her,” Sherlock protested, wrapping his arms possessively around the little girl.

“No way. You’ve been up for as long as I have. You’re going straight to bed.”

 

While Sherlock could be persuaded to shower, John made do with a catlick. Washing off the traces of blood and iodine on his belly and putting on a fresh pair of pyjamas sufficed to make him feel like a whole new person.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, eyeing him in the bathroom mirror as John swallowed his pain meds with a glass of water.

“It’s alright.”

“I’ve looked at your file and estimate that you’ll be completely fine again in less than a month. We’ll have to regularly change your bandages and keep an eye out for any unusual drainage or redness and—”

“I know, Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes. “I’m a bloody doctor. Nothing to worry about. Except for the bad impression it’s gonna make at the clinic. I mean, going on sick leave the same week I handed in my notice? Looks a bit strange but whatever.”

Sherlock stared at him with eyes wide in shock. “The clinic, oh God, I completely forgot about the clinic. Your vacation ended. Why didn’t you go to work?!”

John chuckled. “Calm down, I’ve sorted it all out. And even if I didn’t, I quit anyway, so what’s the harm.”

“You quit? Does that mean what I think it means?” Sherlock asked, hope fluttering in his voice.

John grinned at him in the mirror. “Assistant Detective John Watson reporting for duty. If you’ll have me.”

Sherlock bridged the distance between them with outstretched arms, flung them around John’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he met John’s in the mirror.

Despite his complaining all the while they finished getting ready, claiming there were too many details of their future cooperation to be discussed, Sherlock fell asleep almost as soon as his body hit the mattress, a satisfied hum the last thing escaping his lips. John smiled to himself and contently let his fingers caress Sherlock’s back until he felt his mind grow sluggish. _No, he would never willingly leave this wonderful human, no matter what,_ he thought before he drifted off.

 

Just in time for Rosie’s afternoon playtime, both of them were on their feet again. Mrs. Hudson had won through and cooked them a lovely meal. Only when the delicious smell of roasted meat and vegetables had floated up the staircase, John had realised how ravenous he was. Sherlock must’ve felt the same since he emptied his plate without a single word of complaint. He even did the dishes while John sat on the floor and played with Rosie. Being shot did have upsides then.

Sherlock dried his hands and joined them. He was still in his pyjamas, naked feet sticking out from under his dressing gown as he sat down and helped Rosie stand up on her wobbly legs.

John loved watching them; the way Sherlock talked to her in that special low voice, the way he peppered her little body with kisses and nuzzles until Rosie giggled and squealed with joy.

He handed Sherlock Rosie’s plush elephant, his heart as full as his stomach.

“Ja—”

Both John and Sherlock froze in the middle of their movement. Rosie grinned proudly at her father and opened her mouth again. “Jaw—”

Sherlock’s eyes were glowing. “Did she just…?”

“Don’t look so excited. It’s the normal blubbering,” John dismissed it with a chuckle, captured by Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

“No, I’m sure.”

“Well, what is she saying then? It wasn’t Dada or Daddy or Papa or anything,” John said, shrugging and feeling a little knot form in his guts. He really ought to spend more time with his daughter. Maybe then he would be important enough in her life to be her first word.

Sherlock’s face lit up in realization and, to his surprise, John could see his brows gather like storm clouds over his embarrassed eyes.

“I think she’s trying to say your name,” Sherlock explained sheepishly.

“She’s not.”

As if to refute his objection, Rosie reached out to him and formed once again one wet syllable: “Jaw!”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second as if in pain. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve called you Dad when she’s with me. And I should’ve told Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade to do the same. Now she barely ever heard that word and she’ll say John.”

He looked positively horrified in the face of his assumed blunder and John couldn’t help but scoot closer and cup his jaw gently. Rosie seized the opportunity to grabble at John’s face in return, making the three of them form a close circle of holding and being held.

“Jaw—,” Rosie blubbered again, followed by a proud giggle. John kissed her stubby little hand and deeply inhaled the special scent of family surrounding him.

“She’s not saying John,” he insisted. “She’s saying _Jawn_ , the way you pronounce it, only you.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. His lips opened, closed, and opened again but before he could muster another apology John leaned in and kissed him. It took a second before Sherlock reciprocated, the tension slowly melting under John’s tender tongue.

When they drew apart again, Sherlock still looked endearingly dumbfounded. “But—”

“I couldn’t’ve wished for a better first word, honey,” John quietened him. “The two people I love most in all of this world and they share a name for me.”

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s and let out a relieved little laugh. “I love you so, so much. Both of you.”

John let the unmasked affection in his voice wash over himself, once again amazed by the fact that there was nothing holding them back from expressing their love anymore. For a few achingly sweet heartbeats, they remained joined at arms and faces, the sheer joy radiating of their little family choking a few tears out of both their eyes.

Then, Rosie grabbed her plushie and shoved it against John’s chest. “Jawm,” she repeated assertively. She looked at them both, clearly urging them to stop their nauseating display of affection and instead continue entertaining her. John gave in to her wishes. How could he not?

 

Greg came barging in on their domestic bliss a couple of hours later, accompanied by Molly. The traces of last night’s troubles had been washed away by sleep and good news.

“I’ve just been to the Beaumonts to bring them up to speed,” he told them while Molly cooed at her goddaughter. “They handled it remarkably well. I laid into them to not press any additional charges against Cal and they agreed. After all, he’s just a kid and he was their son’s boyfriend. If you ask me, they only now realised how little they knew about Jason but given the fact that he loved Cal… They’re doing what he would’ve wanted, for once. If everything goes as planned the judge will be lenient and Cal won’t do prison time.”

John gave him a bright smile. “Great. I’m glad to hear that. Is he still in custody?”

“We were obligated to transfer him to a psychiatric facility, suicide watch and everything. But someone pulled some strings”—he gave Sherlock a less than subtle side look—”and managed to get him into one of the… private establishments instead of the state-issued ones. He’ll have some time to calm down there, get a psych eval, and then set things straight before his trial. Someone already stood bail for him.”

John could only wonder when Sherlock had had the time to organise all that. He had never told him where he had been on rehab, if it was indeed the same place he had gotten Cal into, but John suspected that the clinic came as close to a spa retreat as one could imagine—at least for someone like Cal.

He glanced at Sherlock who didn’t look quite as satisfied as he would’ve expected.

“Have you spoken to him? And did he see Laney?” John asked.

“There wasn’t any time but he knows that she’s safe. Cal confirmed that they were supposed to meet. He told her to pack some clothes and wait for him in the hide-out after school.”

“So, why didn’t she?”

“She did, at first. But she got hungry and wanted to buy a sandwich. That’s when Rutherford picked her up. She had no means to tell Cal where she was.”

“He must’ve been so worried.”

“Yeah. They were planning to finally run away last night before he could be implicated in Jason’s death. They just needed money. Cal’d found a pawn shop where he had brought all the other stuff, once or twice per week. Unfortunately, his parents found his secret money stash the same night that Jason died. When Cal came home to get it, everything was gone. That’s why he was desperate enough to come back for the ring. He had no other resources.”

“But what did Jason and Cal fight about in the first place then if not the ring? Didn’t Jason want him to leave or what?”

“The gun,” Sherlock said, voice flat and oddly high.

Lestrade nodded grimly. “Cal broke Beaumont’s gun cabinet open and took one when he left the house. He says he just wanted to threaten his parents to leave Laney alone. But Jason came after him, with the ring, and caught him red-handed. He urged him to not be stupid and put it back, to take the ring instead and use it to get away for a bit until Jason would’ve managed to get more money and join them. But Cal wouldn’t hear it. ‘Money doesn’t solve everything’, he said apparently and he threw the ring away.”

“Desperate, indeed. Did he say what made him stop believing in their plan? He had to be pawning the Beaumont’s riches for a couple of weeks, at least, right? Why not keep at it?”

“A few days before, his parents almost pushed Laney down the stairs. Cal knew it was only a question of time until she would get seriously hurt, and getting the money together just took too long. Otherwise, Jason would never have taken something as high-key as his mother’s engagement ring. Before, it was only small stuff, expensive knick-knack no one would miss.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched sadly. “Mrs. Beaumont did notice though. She just didn’t say anything because she thought Jason had relapsed.”

“Well, he kinda had. But for a good cause,” John demurred.

“We spoke to the owner of the pawn shop and he has already arranged for the Beaumont’s to pick up their belongings. Someone called and offered him a more than generous sum to buy everything back Cal had brought in, paid immediately via wire transfer.”

John couldn’t suppress a grin. _Oh, Sherlock, you sweet, sneaky bastard._ “Well, now we know why they’re not pressing additional charges against Cal.”

“I bet they’d willingly give all their worldly belongings if they could just have their son back,” Sherlock said sombrely. “Maybe if Cal had not been so scared and called an ambulance…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Molly chimed in, with Rosie on her lap babbling affirmatively. “The autopsy suggests that Jason wouldn’t have made it even if Cal had immediately called an ambulance. They would have taken too long to arrive. Cal tried to reanimate him for minutes and he did it properly going by the broken ribs. It was simply too late.”

“I’ve told the Beaumonts,” Lestrade affirmed. “And the Chief Superintendent has certainly seen enough deaths in his day to know that, sometimes, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Let’s hope that knowledge will ease their pain,” John said and gently stroked his fiancé’s lower back. Sherlock was obviously still distraught by the whole case, tense underneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Could I talk to you for a second, Greg?” Sherlock asked and nodded towards the kitchen.

John’s gaze followed them but was soon pulled back to Molly and his daughter playing on the sofa.

 

As they lay in bed that night, John on his back and Sherlock carefully sprawled over him to not accidentally touch the sore flesh under his dressing, the nightly world around them seemed a little softer, a little less bleak.

“I can’t believe Rosie’s already talking,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s neck, already half-way off to sleep. “She’s growing up so fast.”

John hummed affirmatively. “And if your influence remains this strong she’ll probably follow in your footsteps and become a detective. I’m just glad her first word wasn’t murder.”

“If she does become a detective I can hardly take credit for that. Half of her extended family is in law enforcement, after all. It could just as well be Greg or Molly’s influence.”

John snickered and rubbed the soft skin on Sherlock’s bare arm.

“What did you talk about with Greg by the way?” he asked, stifling a yawn. “If you don’t mind me asking. You’re still entitled to private conversation, you know.” He grinned into Sherlock’s hair, followed by a kiss. Sherlock snuggled closer.

“I was just apologising.” He sounded casual enough to fool anyone but John.

He craned his neck to look at Sherlock. “Apologising? You?”

“Don’t act so shocked,” Sherlock said in a slightly huffy tone. His eyes glistened in the dark and, for a few seconds, he remained silent. John was just about to wish him a good night, when Sherlock’s voice, now earnest and small, floated up to him again: “He was right when he yelled at me. What I did was reckless and disrespectful and unnecessarily dangerous. It’s just… I’ve always handled the work like this because the officials I worked with were mostly idiots who didn’t trust my methods. It was more efficiently to do as much of their work as possible, unhindered by their bureaucracy and whatnot. And it was more fun this way, I admit. Running after criminals, putting myself in the line of fire. There was nothing at risk but my own safety. But now… Greg was absolutely right. I thought I was guided by my worry about Rosie, about you. But if I had been I had tried to stay out of harm’s way, for your sake. I’m in this unfamiliar position now of having people in my life who’d be actually affected if I got hurt.”

“There’ve always been people who would’ve been affected, Sherlock,” John said, trying not to let the nauseating mixture of pity and remorse creep up his throat and tint his voice.

The mere thought of losing Sherlock again, of him thinking that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t matter…

“I’ve always cared about you. For years. When you”— _died_ —“disappeared, I was devastated. We all were. How can you still not know how much we all care?”

Sherlock shifted. “That was different. There was no other way. I had to protect you. And I would still risk everything to keep you save. But running after armed strangers in the dark, confronting someone with a gun on the verge of a nervous break-down… there’s simply no necessity for it.”

Another heavy silence settled between them, saturated by dark memories. John pulled him closer, nuzzling his forehead. How much his wonderfully human partner had grown.

Sherlock let out a sigh. “Bottom line is: I’ll try to do better. Greg and even Donovan are not as incapable as I always make them out to be. Maybe I’ll let the trained professionals run down the suspects every once in a while, try to take some more of the dull cases, solve their riddles without risking my life for a change. If that’s alright with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It might get a little… boring. Without the chases. So, if you want to back out of working together…”

“I thought I’ve made myself clear, love: It was never about the cases. It’s always been you. I’d follow you anywhere, on a secret international spy mission or the dullest office job you can find. You’re not getting rid of me.”

John could feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin. “I’d never try to. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing this again.” He squeezed John a little tighter. “It’s just time I started taking some responsibility for our little family.”

“You’ll have to stop right now, you know?” John said, grinning in the dark.

Sherlock sounded concerned. “What?”

John shifted him in his arms, rolling him onto his back, eager to see his face in the dim light seeping through the curtains. “You’ll have to stop being so bloody adorable while I’m all battle-wounded and can’t even properly fuck you for it,” he growled. “That’s just torture.”

Sherlock giggled. “You’re free to make up for any missed opportunities as soon as you’re fully recovered. We could keep a tab if you want.”

John laughed and attacked his mouth with kisses. “At least I’m not too hurt to snog that grin off your face.”

The light-hearted sounds of amusement John freed from Sherlock’s chest with skilful movements of hands and fingers resounded deep inside his mind. He only now fully realised how incredibly lucky he was. Sherlock was right, and so had been Greg; He shouldn’t risk the life he had finally been granted, a life full of love and joy and warmth, a life he could spend with Sherlock and Rosie, as a family.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” John breathed between ebbing giggles and brushed some stray curls off Sherlock’s forehead.

“I suspected you’d do that sometimes,” Sherlock returned with a cheeky smile.

John pinched him. “Shut up.”

He settled back onto his pillow with a sigh. His side throbbed numbly. He’d better be a little more careful for the next few days at least.

A few beats passed with only their breaths filling the silence.

“What were you thinking about then?” Sherlock asked, his voice now distinctly drowsy. John began massaging his scalp, extricating a content sigh.

“How would you feel about…,” John began hesitantly, “about having another baby?”

“Another baby?”

“Yes, I’ve just been seeing you with Rosie, how good you are with her, how happy you look when all three of us are together, and I thought… I just love raising her with you. I never thought I was cut out to be a father but you… You are simply extraordinary, and you make me a better parent, too.” When Sherlock stayed silent, he added: “We don’t have to decide right now. Just think about it.”

“If we were to have another child, hypothetically,” Sherlock asked, carefully guarding his emotions, “how would you like to go about it? I love you very much but I doubt that’s enough to get either of us pregnant.”

“We can still try,” John teased, earning a silent laugh bubbling out of Sherlock. “Well, there is always adoption but, to be honest, I thought… surrogacy. You know, with you as a donor. I’m always amazed when I spot parts of myself in Rosie, and I think having a child that’s part you, too…”

“… would be challenging, to say the least.”

“Every child is a challenge,” John retorted, planting a kiss among the jungle of Sherlock’s dark curls. “As I said, we don’t have to decide anything right now. First, there’s the wedding planning and us working together and getting used to being a couple and all that. We don’t have to rush anything, we’ve got time. Just promise me you’ll give it a thought, alright?”

“I promise.”

John was already half-way off to sleep, engulfed by darkness and Sherlock’s warmth, when a voice crept to his ear again, shy and almost translucently thin. “You’d actually be willing to risk having a child with my DNA?”

“What do you mean _risk_?” John murmured back, his mind already slowed down by imminent sleep.

“There is a good chance my mental capacities are hereditary. Look at Mycroft and Eurus. What if a child I father would be… just like me?”

“That’d be everything I hope for, love. Having a tiny little version of the person I love in my life would only improve it.”

“But what if they’re… what if they’re a problem child? God knows, I was,” Sherlock mused, his voice growing more worried with every word. “What if they didn’t speak or only cried or couldn’t make any friends? What if everyone thought they were a freak, just like their father? Why would you want to risk having a child like this?”

“It would be our child, Sherlock. How could I not love someone who’s part you?”

Sherlock heaved himself onto his elbows, seeking John’s half-closed eyes in the gloom of their bedroom. “Do you mean that?”

“Every word.”

Sherlock wrapped himself tightly around John. “I love you,” he snivelled.

John smiled, closing his eyes. “I love you more.”

“Impossible.”


End file.
